


The Bibliotheca Intrigue

by April in Paris (April_in_Paris)



Series: The Bibliotheca Volumes [2]
Category: Shamy - Fandom, The Big Bang Theory (TV)
Genre: F/M, The Big Bang Theory AU, shamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-09-28 12:42:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10101281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/April_in_Paris/pseuds/April%20in%20Paris
Summary: Doctoral candidate Amy Farrah Fowler spends every Saturday evening in the rare books reading room at the library, needlessly requesting the same volumes over and over again. One night, the library experiences a power outage, and Amy is trapped inside with a handsome and mysterious librarian. Will the library allow her to fulfill all her bookish fantasies or will the darkness reveal more secrets than it conceals? AUPublished simultaneously on fanfiction.net.





	1. Chapter 1

_**Doctoral candidate Amy Farrah Fowler spends every Saturday evening in the rare books reading room at the library, needlessly requesting the same volumes over and over again. One night, the library experiences a power outage, and Amy is trapped inside with a handsome and mysterious librarian. Will the library allow her to fulfill all her bookish fantasies or will the darkness reveal more secrets than it conceals?** _

* * *

_"_ _The nerves, although not concerned in originating the contractions of the heart muscle,  
play an important role in regulating their force and frequency in order to subserve the physiological needs of the organism."  
__-_ Anatomy of the Human Body _by Henry Gray_

* * *

It was a dark and stormy night.

The edges of her lips turning up in amusement at her own thought, Amy shook out her umbrella in the vestibule of the library before placing in the rack. In this case, she reasoned, it was an appropriate description of the spring evening, with the heavy rain clouds darkening the skies. And the worst had yet to arrive based on the appearance of the radar before she left her apartment. She stomped her feet, too, her tall green rubber boots shedding water on the floor. She should have worn tights; her bare knees were cold and damp beneath the hem of her skirt. She pulled her cardigan tighter around her, grateful she'd thought to grab it on the way out the door.

The squish-squish of her steps and the murmured "Good Evening" of the clerk were all that met her in lobby. Even the building felt cold and dim and hushed this rainy night. Cutting through, Amy walked toward the glass paneled double doors to the stately reading room. As always, she took a deep breath when she crossed over the threshold.

Recently restored, the large room was a beautiful reminder of a time gone by, when books and the knowledge they imparted was sacrosanct. The reading room and the lobby were original to the building, although now the majority of the library's collection was housed in the modern addition. This room, with its long wooden tables, intricate marble tile floors, and painted ceiling, was mostly used for silent reading and studying. The bookshelves along the upper walkway were now off limits to patrons, housing instead the library's collection of rare texts. The only staircase leading to the walkway spiraled down behind the massive carved wooden counter in the corner, the domain of the librarians.

Amy took her preferred seat, closest to that counter, a brass sign hanging above labeling it the circulation desk, although that was misleading as the rare books requested there were not allowed to circulate beyond the double doors. Although, Amy reasoned as she unpacked her bag, why would one what to leave this beautiful room? She loved the sounds of it, the soft turning of pages, the scraping of wooden chairs on the floor, even the occasional dry cough sounded dignified. Then there was the lighting, the large and ornate Art Nouveau chandlers, now updated to house LED bulbs, casting a soft golden glow over the room from their purple tulip-shaped globes. She even loved the smell, the faint tang of limestone dust and the pleasant mustiness of old paper.

Spreading her supplies, she glanced at said circulation desk and frowned. Hoping it wasn't obvious, she looked around the room, unusually empty even for a Saturday evening. There was only one other person she saw, an older gentleman sitting close to the large - and forever empty - fireplace cordoned off along the opposite wall. But she kept her eyes moving until she spotted him, his lean frame walking along the upper walkway. She watched his long legs propel him noisily down the wrought iron stairs, the treads and railing covered in the same floral pattern as was found in the chandeliers, taking two steps at a time as he always did.

Just as Amy was about to lift herself from the chair to walk to the desk, the other man passed by her, walking so quickly that the pages in her notebook curled up for a second. She sat back down.

She was close enough she could hear him clearly as he returned a book. However, instead of turning away from the desk he asked, "Are you staying here?"

"Why wouldn't I? The library is open until nine on Saturday," the librarian answered. Amy had never been brave enough to ask his name.

"It's dead tonight. No one's here."

"Untrue. There is a patron right there." Blushing fiercely and hating herself for it, Amy threw her chin down, pretending to be absorbed in the blank page of her notebook. She'd been caught staring.

"Poor thing. What's a young girl like that doing here tonight?"

"I do not understand your question. She seems to be wearing sensible rain boots and a warm sweater." Torn between discomfort at being called a poor thing by the stranger and pleasure that the librarian had noticed her attire, Amy shifted her legs. And immediately regretted it, as it probably conveyed she knew they were talking about her boots.

"But it's a Saturday night! She should be out, enjoying herself on a date!"

Amy blushed deeper, bringing her hand up to try and cover her face. It was bad enough to know that one did not have a date, or even the prospect of a date, for a Saturday night without being reminded of it by a middle-aged stranger. Or having her desperately lonely state pointed out to the handsome librarian.

"Sir, I do not engage in speculation about the private lives of my patrons," the librarian said sharply. "Were you interested in another book?"

The stranger mumbled something that sounded vaguely like an apology and walked away from the desk. Amy turned her head to avoid making any sort of eye contact with him and also to hide her burning face. The librarian had just defended her!

The librarian was a mystery to her. The type of mystery that kept her up at night in a not entirely proper fashion. His arrival in the library could not be explained. The day the remodeled room reopened he appeared behind the circulation desk, as though he sprang complete into existence along with the newly cleaned and colorful ceiling. He was young - she guessed they were of similar ages - far younger than any librarian she'd even known. He was strikingly handsome, not just for those legs but also for his neat dark hair and piercing blue eyes. His fashion choices were most unusual; Amy had learned the library had a business casual dress code but somehow he managed to get away with wearing graphic tee shirts. But most intriguing was his personality: while helpful and certainly knowledgeable, he was taciturn. Never once had he inquired into her research needs, and certainly there had never been any of the brief but pleasant personal exchanges Amy had enjoyed with Brenda, the former Saturday evening librarian. Amy could never decide if he was naturally laconic and vaguely haughty or if he was trying to do his best Mr. Darcy impression. Whatever it was, it had caused her to change her visits to this library from once a month to every week. As she didn't even know his name, in her most impure moments she had taken to thinking of him as Hottie Librarian.

Now alone in the reading room, the stranger having left abruptly, she knew she had no choice but to request a book or risk looking suspicious. Taking a deep breath, she approached the desk.

"Excuse me?" she ventured.

The blue eyes looked up and blinked. "Yes, Ms. Fowler?" Of course he knew her name, both from her library card and from her weekly visits. It put her at a disadvantage, but she liked the way he said it, the formality of it, the way the syllables rolled off his tongue. He made it sound round and full, like he was polishing her name in his throat before releasing it.

"I need a book."

"Then it is fortunate you are in a library."

Blushing afresh at her silly faux pas, Amy stammered. "Of - of course. I need, um, Grey's Anatomy, the first edition."

"Very well."

He got up off his stool without further comment and climbed back up to the walkway. Amy forced herself not to watch; instead, she toyed with the collection of small half-pencils in a cup resting on the desk.

" _Anatomy of the Human Body_ , First Edition," his voice rang out and Amy jumped, spilling the pencils all over the wooden counter. She grasped and shoved them back into the cup as she heard the clang of his shoes on the stairs. "I did not intend to frighten you," he said in his normal speaking voice as he stepped up to the other side of the desk. "I thought it would be a more efficient use of my time, as there is no one else here that necessities my usual silence on the catwalk."

"Oh - oh. Of course. You just startled me, that's all."

He pushed the large book across the counter. "My apologies."

Touching the fragile cover of the book gently, Amy found herself holding her breath. It was the most he'd ever spoken to her, and his eyes did not quiver from hers.

"Perhaps you'd like another volume," he said after the pause. "There are two other titles you check out on a rotating schedule. Or maybe you'd like to try something new?"

Amy squeaked at being found out, but, fortunately, at that exact moment, a crack of lightening both drowned out her voice and lit up the room via the narrow transom windows high above the bookcases. The librarian broke his gaze to look up. "The storm has begun," he said. "Do you know the electrical current generated by lightning lasts less than 200 microseconds? It is not the length of the strike but rather the number of rapid current changes that causes the ionic channel that leads to harm."

"'And what is that tapering of light you bear? see how it darts upwards,—and now it vanishes!'" Amy murmured, looking up at the ceiling and wondering if another strike would come soon.

"That was lovely."

"Ann Radcliffe's  _The Mysteries of Udolpho_ ," Amy whispered before remembering where she was and who had just spoke to her. Lowering her head, she tried not to stare too deeply into Hottie Librarian's beautiful and - she thought - curious eyes. Somewhere between embarrassed and brave, she blurted out, "Thank you for what you said."

He raised a single eyebrow.

"Hoooo," she breathed out softly.

"What was it I said?"

"Oh! Um, well," Amy looked down at the counter, picking up a pencil she'd missed and tapping it against the desk, "when you said you didn't, um, speculate about my private life."

Now he shifted his eyes away and Amy was delighted to see a faint flush to his cheeks. "I did not realize I could be overheard. But I don't. Speculate."

"It's only because I sit so close to the desk," Amy said quickly. "I'm sorry I was eavesdropping."

He looked back. "Perhaps I just need to lower the decibels of my library voice."

"But I love your library voice!"

The eyebrow went up again, even before Amy had fully completed the path to regret for saying that. "I mean, what little I've heard of it. Not that I've been listening." She shoved the pencil back into the cup, determined to walk away as quickly as possible. And maybe never return.

Then something amazing happened.

Just as the room lit with the bright light of another crack of lightening, his hand covered hers over the pencil cup. Amy looked down at his hand - his hands were exquisite, she'd always thought so, from the very time she saw him typing to look up the first book she ever requested from him - and gasped. Her heart almost raced out of her chest.

Hottie Librarian was touching her! In the library!

He coughed and pulled his hand away. "You're putting them in upside down. It's more orderly if they all face the same direction."

"Oh," Amy said, disappointed. Here she was doing what her mother always warned her about, letting her imagination run away with her. Amy picked up the forgotten book on the counter and started to turn. But she stopped at the last moment. "I don't think I know your name."

"I would expect that someone as intelligent as you would know if you knew it or not." Again, the Darcyesque mix of hauteur and cognizance. He hadn't even looked up from re-arranging the pencils. But then he did and he added, softly, "Sheldon. Dr. Sheldon Cooper."

"You have your doctorate in library science?" Amy turned back, intrigued. "I'm finishing my dissertation in neuroscience; I hope to defend sometime this summer."

He nodded. "It's always been my goal to get a job at the Smithsonian Dibner Library someday. They're extremely difficult positions to obtain; a doctorate in library science is essential."

There was a rumble of thunder, close enough it seemed to shake the the room, and both Amy and Sheldon looked up toward the ceiling.

"I'm Amy Farrah Fowler," Amy said quickly, over the sound of wind gusting against the windows.

"I know. It's on your record."

"Oh. Yes."

Another moment seemed to pass and Amy wondered if the conversation had reached its natural conclusion. There was another crack of lightening, the roll of trembling thunder only a second later this time, and she asked, "Would you close early? Because of the weather?"

Sheldon - or should it be Dr. Cooper? - shook his head. "No, not unless there is some sort of state of emergency declared."

"It's so quiet."

"Well, it  _is_  a library." He raised his index finger to his lips and made a shushing noise.

Amy gulped. Hottie Librarian just shushed at her! His finger, so upright and proud, such a contrast to the rounded fingers beneath it . . . Even his nails were lovely, clean and even, the same pale color as his skin, their lunulae a stark white contrast. Her thoughts were going to be  _very_  improper later, she knew. She blushed and managed to choke out, "Oh course. It should be quiet."

"Exactly!" He said with more enthusiasm than she would have expected. "The quiet is one of the reasons I became a librarian. Noisy patrons are the bane of my existence, the way they buzz and buzz, like giant bees whose stingers are as large as horns."

Tilting her head, Amy replied, "Horny bees?"

"Precisely. They penetrate the delicate flowers that are my ear drums."

He seemed oblivious even as he said it.

First Amy nodded, then she pivoted sharply on her heels and rushed back to her seat, too confused and embarrassed to continue the conversation. Amy felt his eyes boring into her the whole way, but she refused to raise her own to meet them once she was seated. Unsure of how to react to the thrill of pleasure at the very idea he might have meant the pun, that he might have been flirting with her in a scholarly way, the embarrassment of her blush, for no one had ever flirted with her in any way, scholarly or otherwise, and the disappointment in herself that she couldn't think of a flirtatious come-back, she opened the book and let it fall to the page it choose. It was the illustration of the human heart. She stared at the diagrams of its chambers, the same page she'd been studying every third Saturday for the past six months.

She didn't know how long she had been staring at the page, not reading, just avoiding Hott - Sheldon when she jumped from another crack of lightening and roll of thunder combination, this time right on top of each other. The lights noticeably flickered and dimmed. She looked up, just as they returned to their normal glow.

Frowning, she looked down at the book again, turning the page and picking up her pencil to appear studious and occupied in case Sheldon was still watching her. Was he? She was desperate to know but too frightened to find out.

_Is he still watching me?_

Realizing she'd just written that, she turned her pencil over to erase it. What if he walked by and read it?

Another crack and boom, another blinding flash of light, a strange popping sound, and Amy dropped her pencil with a small scream as the lights went completely out, plunging her into darkness. Her breath coming heavy, she rested her palm against her chest, waiting for them to turn back on. But they didn't.

"Are you alright?" Sheldon's voice called.

Amy squinted into the sudden beam of light; she realized it must be a flashlight kept at the circulation desk.

"Yes, thank you. It just sounded like it was going hit us. Are the lights . . .?"

There was the  _click-whack_  of the small door in the desk opening and the light got closer. "The power went out. My computer died. I'm sure it will be back on soon."

Suddenly, there was a loud klaxon from the front of the room and some sort of metallic clinking sound. "What -"

"Oh, no!" Sheldon yelled, and the light ran away from her quickly, toward the entrance to the room. The beam of light in front of him illuminated a large black grate descending in front of the doors. Amy watched, her mouth open, not believing what she was seeing. Once the gate reached the floor, all the noises stopped, not just the metallic sound of it moving but also the loud alarm. But her ears still hummed.

"Oh, no," she heard Sheldon moan as he swung his flashlight back and forth across the black metal bars.

Quickly, Amy dug in her bag and pulled out her cell phone, grateful she always kept in the same easily accessible spot. She pressed on the phone's flashlight and got up to walk toward the gate. Sheldon stood staring at it, the hand not holding the flashlight on his hip.

"Can you raise it?" she asked when she came up next to him.

"Hmm? Oh." He seemed to have forgotten she was there. "No. I don't have the code, only managers do. I remember reading about this in my employee manual. In the event of a power outage, the gate will lower to prevent looting."

"Looting?"

"We have a lot of valuable books and manuscripts. Some thieves may try to cut power to gain access."

"What about the woman at the lobby desk?" Amy asked, looking toward the glass doors but the lobby was only blackness beyond.

"Susan would have left at nine, when the library closes."

"What? But surely -" Amy looked at the screen of her phone. 9:07 PM.

"Why didn't you tell me it was closing time?" she said, her voice sharp with accusation.

Sheldon finally moved at that, swinging his flashlight at her and then lowering it quickly away from her face when she put her hand up to shield her eyes. "I'm sorry. You seemed so engrossed in your studies and the weather is so terrible outside I thought perhaps you might prefer to wait inside until it passed."

As though to prove his point, there was another lightning and thunder combination.

"How dare you be all - all chivalrous and upstanding without my permission!"

She couldn't see him well at all because their two lights were now aimed elsewhere, but she could have swore his eyebrow went up again. "Very well. I shall endeavor to be abrasive and unkind for the remainder of our acquaintanceship."

Amy frowned and then squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. "I apologize. I think I'm nervous about being locked in here. Is there someone you can call?"

"Of course. Come," he commanded and snapped his fingers, and Amy couldn't help but follow him back to the desk. She waited on the patron side as he swung the half-door open again and stepped behind it. Aiming his flashlight, he reached for a black corded telephone on the desk, one of those models seen in every business with multiple buttons. He picked up the receiver and listened before putting his finger on the switch hook, pressing it and releasing it several quick times in a row before putting the receiver back down with a loud sigh. "It's dead. Even the phones are electronic, I believe, with this many lines."

"Do you know the number? You can use my cell phone," Amy offered, stretching out her arm with the phone, the light briefly lighting up his face. Something about the angle made his eyes appear to glow, the sharpness of their blue cutting through the dark.

Then he glanced down at the screen that had come on when she put her thumb on the home button. "You don't have any service."

"What?" Amy snatched the device back, frowning at the innocent looking white words in the upper left corner: No Service.

"Let me get my phone," he offered, and his flashlight swung away as he walked toward a door behind the desk. Once he opened it and walked inside, Amy watched, curious, as a few desks rapidly filled the light and then swept away. She heard a rustling noise before he walked back, holding his phone out in front of him. "Me, neither." He held the screen up for her to see, not that she doubted him.

"What do we do? What if no one knows we're in here?" she asked, trying to keep the panic from rising in her voice.

"Well, Ms. Fowler, it seems we just may have to spend the night in the library."

* * *

 _**You would not be reading this story right now if emmy4mayim (follow her on Instagram!) had not suggested the plot seed to me one day. As an ardent supporter of my local public library system and someone who makes it a point to visit public libraries when she travels, I couldn't resist giving our dear Shamy a very bookish** _ **_fantasy . . . or will it be? Stay tuned to find out._ **

**_And, as always, my dear readers, thank you in advance for your reviews!_ **


	2. Chapter 2

_"I have been one acquainted with the night._  
_I have walked out in the rain - and back in rain._  
_I have outwalked the furthest city light."_  
\- Robert Frost

* * *

Like most female book worms of a certain age, young Amy had gasped along with Belle when the Beast took her to see the library in his castle for the very first time. It wasn't just the massive quantity of books, although that was the primary reason, but also the towering heights of the room, the ladders and stairs and balconies, the carvings and object d'arts, the cozy reading chairs in front of the fireplace. Even if one knew exactly how a Disney movie would finish, it was in that moment that Amy knew the Beast loved Belle. He had just given her a library, and there could be no greater act of true love. That library was somewhere that she had often thought would be a wonderful place to spend a cold and rainy night such as the one she was currently experiencing, and if she could be there with her true love, snuggled up in front of a roaring fire . . .

But when the reality of being locked away against her will struck her, even surrounded by a library with balconies of bookshelves and a handsome librarian, she blurted out, "But what if I have to go to the bathroom?"

Immediately embarrassed and dreading what Sheldon would say in reply, Amy gulped; but he didn't mock her in the slightest. He just nodded slightly in the light of the flashlight he'd set on the counter facing upwards and seemed to accept the practicality of the question. "You're prepared, I like that. There is an employee bathroom off our office you can use."

"Good." Amy let out a breath. "So what do we do now?"

"Provided you don't need to use the restroom right now -" he paused allowing Amy to shake her head "- I think we should look for another light source."

"You're worried that using the flashlights on our phones will use up all the battery power, thus making them unusable when service is restored?"

"Exactly. And I don't think this flashlight has a wide enough beam or a enough stilbs of luminance to allow both of us to comfortably read."

"Read? Will we be reading?" Amy had never seen Sheldon actually read a book, oddly enough. Instead, he was working at the desk, talking to patrons, filling out paperwork, looking things up on the computer or just working on it. But she had never once seen his fingers gently catch the corner of a page, his hand glide slowly down the edge, the quick but subtle flick of the wrist that allowed the turn to occur -

"I presumed so," he interrupted her daydream. "I can't do my work as the computers are down, and I should think you would like additional time to memorize your anatomy atlas."

"I'm not memorizing it," Amy protested, not wanting Sheldon to think she was so uneducated or so young as to still be learning such basics. "I took anatomy years ago. I'm just -" She bit her lip, wishing she had started the sentence differently. Or not at all. "I enjoy the illustrations."

"Do you know it is now available for free online? And there are several superior interactive and animated anatomy resources as well."

"I would think that a rare book and manuscript librarian would appreciate the need for paper." Amy gasped slightly at herself. She should not be arguing with Sheldon. Not just because he was handsome and potentially helpful, but also because he was the one who knew where the bathroom was.

But, instead of appearing angry, he smiled. Truly smiled, the first she'd ever seen from him, and she noticed for the first time the ever so slight crookedness of his front teeth. "Have you ever seen cellulose pulp autoflourescing under ultraviolet light?"

Amy shook her head.

Sheldon reached over for his forgotten phone and opened it. There, on his lock screen, was a beautiful photo of microscopic paper in all its glory, the lines of cellulose bright blue as they crossed and wove in the field of black. Paper was not white on such a level.

"It's beautiful," Amy said and looked up at him with her own smile.

Maybe it was all those rapid electrical current changes in the air, but Amy felt like the hair on her arms stood up as their eyes met. His eyes were the same color as paper, paper in its purest, most essential form. She felt something light between them dart upward and -

\- and how it vanished in a crack of lightening, the overwhelming whiteness of it drowning out their moment of obscure blue.

"Light," Sheldon said suddenly, putting his phone down.

"What are our options? Do you have any candles?" Amy asked, squaring her shoulders and deciding to be practical. This was not a fantasy of libraries and blue eyes and paper on a microscopic level. This was an actual semi-emergency.

"I think we have some left over from someone's birthday." He grabbed the flashlight and moved away from the desk, but then he suddenly turned back. "Would you like to come and see the office? I can show you the bathroom."

Amy nodded quickly, excitement flooding her veins. She was going to get to go behind the desk! She was going to be allowed into the inner sanctum of the librarians! Sheldon walked over to the half door and opened it for her, and she stepped behind the counter.

"The circulation desk, of course," Sheldon said, swinging his flashlight quickly. As it could be seen from the other side, there was nothing too interesting here, and he walked briskly toward the door behind it, turning the knob, stepping inside, and holding it open for her. "The work room. It's not used much except during the weekdays, when Brenda is here to do the majority of the paperwork."

"I wondered what happened to her," Amy said, turning the flashlight back on her phone and moving it slowly around the room. It was not as exciting as she pictured; it was a square windowless room, which four standard metal desks huddled in the center of the room, divided by those gray cubicle dividers, a couple of files cabinets, various papers and posters affixed to the walls, and a coat stand in the corner. There was none of the ornamentation of the outer room here.

"She was promoted to supervisor of the reading room," Sheldon explained. "That door is the bathroom." He flicked his light in the direction of a plain brown door.

"Thank you," Amy said, wondering if she should take advantage of the opportunity.

"I'm sure you're disappointed," Sheldon said, as he set the flashlight upright on the cleanest, sparest desk. Amy would have said it was unused except there was a one of those small desk calendars on it, the type in which you tear off a page for each day, and it appeared to have been kept current.

Amy turned to look at him, surprised at his insight.

"It's original to the building, but it was just a glorified closet. There were coat racks for the patrons. When they remodeled, they had to put drywall up, to cover all the new conduits for the wires and such. The other room is better."

"Other room?" Amy raised her eyebrows.

He turned and smiled at her. "We call it the Nancy Drew room, but that's just our moniker. Technically, it's off limits to patrons."

"Oh?" Amy said, intrigued. She waited for Sheldon to offer more details, or, if she were being honest with herself, offer to make an exception given the unusual circumstances of the evening, but he instead picked up the flashlight and circled around to another desk, opening a drawer there.

Using her cell phone light to study it by, Amy picked up the desk calendar. It was already set to the correct date, and she looked at the picture of Stephen Hawking and read the quote: "Women. They are a complete mystery."

She chuckled without realizing it, and Sheldon asked, "What's so funny?"

"This desk calendar. It's got a quote from Stephen Hawking and it's funny in an ironic way. It says -"

"'Women. They are a complete mystery,'" Sheldon finished, and Amy looked up to see him watching her over the cubicle partition. "It's my desk."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Amy said, flustered, as she quickly put the calendar back down.

"No apologies necessary," he explained and his face disappeared as he started opening more drawers. "I rarely use it. The calendar was a gift to brighten its appearance from my coworkers. They feel my desk is not personal enough, apparently because I don't have a Dilbert cartoon tacked to the wall complaining about either Mondays or my supervisor or my supervisor on a Monday."

Over the banging of a metal drawers, Amy scanned the desk carefully. Now that she was studying it, she disagreed with Sheldon's coworkers. His pens and pencils were standing in a  _Star Wars_  coffee mug (only one type of each, she noticed, pencils on the left, pens on the right, all facing downwards), with his stapler and Post-It note dispenser and can of compressed air cleaner arranged in a straight row next to them. Amy shuffled the desk calendar to line up with them. Pinned above the desk was some sort of black and cream diagram. Leaning closer, Amy read the title and smiled. It was a reproduction of Tesla's original patent drawing for the alternating motor. Yes, it was a spartan, well-organized space, but that did not mean there was an absence of personality. It was the domain of ordered and precise mind, someone with an interest in science and science fiction and, appropriately enough, old scientific documents.

"Found them! I should have looked in Brenda's desk first; she saves everything," Sheldon called, and Amy snapped her head away from his desk to look up at the two small boxes he was holding up in the air. As he walked closer he said, "But I'm not sure they'll work. They seem too small."

He held out one of the boxes, and Amy took it to inspect the candles visible through the clear window. They were white and green swirled and they couldn't be more than three inches long. "I think you're correct." Amy passed them back with frown. "What's the other box?"

"Matches."

"Do you have another plan? Are there other flashlights somewhere? I know we may not be able to read by them, but we don't seem to be doing much reading anyway. Or any other source of light? Some sort of emergency lamp?"

"I didn't see any more flashlights in the drawers - Oh! You're brilliant!" Sheldon suddenly snapped his fingers.

"I am?"

"Yes! There's an old kerosene lamp on display out here."

Before Amy could inquire further, Sheldon turned on his heels and started toward the reading room, his long legs propelling him quickly.

"Wait!" Amy called, struggling to catch up with him.

Just as quickly as he started moving, he stopped, so much so that Amy almost slammed into his broad back, stopping herself just in time. Sheldon aimed the flashlight at her and she squinted. "What do you mean a lamp on display? Like one your treasures? An artifact?"

"Well, yes. We have a kerosene lamp that belonged to Robert Frost. It's locked in the glass display cabinet." He swung the flashlight wide, trying to illuminate the opposite end of the room, but the beam weakened and died in the darkness before it got there.

"Are you proposing we use a lamp that belonged to Robert Frost? We can't do that!"

"Why not?" The light swung back.

"Well, it's - it's just not done. That lamp is probably priceless!"

"Actually, according to the database, it's valued at less than a thousand dollars. And desperate times call for desperate measures, is that not so?"

Amy bit her lip as she contemplated his argument. "Will it even work? Is it dangerous?"

"It was cleaned and inspected along with everything else during the remodel. It's as good as new. Most importantly, it was filled with new lamp oil, not kerosene, so it's much less flammable. Also, lamp oil doesn't yellow or go rancid."

"Okay. But we're careful with it. We burn it low and for only as long as we need to. If one of us needs to go to the restroom, we take the flashlight."

"Agreed. Come on."

Sheldon was off again, in front of her, his flashlight lighting his path. Amy had already turned off her cell phone light to conserve battery life, and she dropped it quickly on the counter in her rush to catch up with Sheldon's long legs as he took the spiral stairs two at a time, just as he always did. He had the flashlight, which was only logical as he was in the front, but it left her to negotiate the metal curves by herself. She took a couple of steps slowly, finding the stairs tighter and more cramped than she would have thought and -

"Oww!" Amy's green rain boot caught something unseen in the fancy ironwork.

"Are you alright?" Sheldon stopped and turned around in front of her.

"Yes. I'm not injured, just surprised." Amy looked down at now-illuminated stair in front of her. "I think I just missed a step or something. These boots aren't the most flexible."

"How rude of me. I should have warned you the rise and the treads are smaller than average. Here."

His hand, his beautiful hand, covered hers on the railing, and she looked up with surprise. The flashlight was angled such that she could clearly see his neck and the bottom of his face, as though he were telling a ghost story. She watched his Adam's apple bob up and down with a gulp. "Let me help you," he said, hoarsely.

Amy nodded, her breath coming fast in the dark, and lifted her hand enough that Sheldon surrounded her smaller fingers with his own. Now, palm to palm, he turned slowly on the stairs as Amy gingerly took the next step. He calmed his pace, only one step at a time now. They turned and rose in near silence, the only sounds were the soles of their shoes on the metal and the rushing in Amy's ears.

His palm was soft and warm and dry, making Amy fearful that hers would get clammy. For a second, it seemed their hands would slide apart as they moved, but Sheldon quickly readjusted and gripped her tighter, the point of his thumb now resting on her wrist. She wondered if he could feel her pulse there, the rapid fluttering movement of her heartbeat. The pad of his thumb swiped softly against the sensitive skin and Amy bit back something between a gasp and moan, something that seemed to come not from her lungs but rather from further down, from somewhere deep and private.

Then, too soon, he stopped at the last step. He turned and looked at her, dropping her hand. The sudden cold air on her naked palm was almost painful, and Amy pulled her hand close to her cardigan for warmth.

"Better?" he whispered.

"Yes."

"I hope the climb wasn't too taxing. You seem a little short of breath."

Amy thought it was a miracle her lungs were still functioning. "I'm - I'm fine."

"Good." Then she saw him wipe is hand against his tee shirt. "I don't like to exchange sweat and germs any longer than necessary."

Amy frowned, grateful the dark was concealing her face. So it had not been the romantic interlude she imagined after all. It had been something for him to endure, probably only so there wouldn't be some sort of insurance claim for a fall and broken limb on his watch. Or so he wouldn't be fired for allowing a patron on the stairs. Even the brushing of his thumb had probably only been fidgeting, fighting the urge to let go.

Swinging the light out over the library, again it's beam swallowed whole by the dark carven beneath them, Sheldon interrupted her displeasure to say, "It's a shame the lights aren't on. Many say the view is aesthetically pleasing. Shall we continue? It's flat now."

"Yes." Amy followed him on the walkway, the smell of old books stronger up here and she took several deep breaths, both to enjoy the scent and to calm her beating heart. She would focus on their mission, she would not allow herself to fall victim to either an over-active imagination or Sheldon's obtuse insults.

"Corner," Sheldon said, although she could see it in the light in front of him, and she turned to follow him to the center, stopping in front of several glass-doored cabinets that held a few non-book items. "There is it is. Here, hold this."

Amy took the pro-offered flashlight, the metal warm from his touch and the battery inside and aimed it at the lamp on the shelf. Sheldon reached into his pants pocket and pulled out small set of keys. Centering the beam on the lock for him, he easily opened the glass door. After replacing the keys in his pocket, he reached in and carefully pulled out the lamp, one hand firmly under its base, the other grasping the chimney.

"What if he wrote about the two paths diverging in the forest by the light of this lamp?" Amy suddenly asked.

"I hope not," Sheldon said. "What an over-used bit of claptrap that is. I think we should try to light it downstairs, where we can set it down somewhere. You lead the way."

The walk back was different. Amy could see better now, aiming the light to not only illuminate her path but also to see the spines of all the books as they passed. She worried Sheldon would tell her to stop dawdling, but he was content to walk in silence behind her, no doubt holding tightly to his precious cargo. "I think the storm has stopped," Amy realized aloud.

"It will probably be our fortune that the power will be restored just as we get this working. Will you be okay on the stairs?"

She wanted to say no, so that he would take her hand again, so that she could feel the shiver radiating from such a small motion as his delicate skin brushing hers, even if it was only an illusion. But then how would he carry the lamp? "I'll be alright."

Descending slowly, her heart jumping every time there was the slightest rattle of glass behind her, Amy let out a deep breath when her feet touched the solid marble floor once more. She turned to face Sheldon as he clutched the lamp close to his tee shirt. "Do you still have the matches?"

"Yes."

However, he made no effort to put the lamp on the top of the counter, as Amy anticipated. She waited and when he still made no move to set the lamp down, she asked, "Sheldon?" It was the first time she used his name, and she let the word hang from her lips.

"Has it occurred to you that we are in a very flammable environment?"

Furrowing her brow because she'd raised this exact concern with him before they went to get the lamp, Amy said, "Yes. But you said the new lamp oil was much less flammable."

"Even so, I don't think we should strike a match here. Let's go over to the fireplace."

"The fireplace?"

"It's all limestone. We'll set the lamp inside, use the matches to light it there, just in case the flame is too great."

"Okay." Once again, Amy set off with the flashlight, leading Sheldon and the lamp toward the massive carved fireplace. The fireplace and the sofa facing it were separated from the rest of the library by a red velvet cord strung around the space, but Amy was able to easily unhook it with her free hand so that Sheldon could enter the normally off-limits area behind her.

Closer than she'd ever been, Amy aimed the flashlight up, to the beautiful carved limestone of the mantel and above, the relief a busy profusion of Art Nouveau lines and stems and petals until they all met in the middle creating the massive bouquet of stylized tulips. Just like the chandeliers, just like the grating of the walkway and stairs, the tulips the room was named after.

"Why tulips?" she asked.

Sheldon bent over the limestone hearth, gently lowering the lamp to the stone. "Ancient Persian poets considered them a first declaration of love, their solid exterior hiding the dark center that was said to burn with the depths of passion." Not giving her time to reply, he lifted the chimney off the lamp. "Here, hold this."

Amy reached down for the bulbous glass tube with her free hand, surprised by how light and delicate it was. Which only made her frightened that she would drop it and break it. "Lowering the wick," Sheldon murmured, almost to himself, "it's better to start low and raise it if needed." He reached into his pocket again and brought out the box of matches. Amy watched him, the way his finger pressed and pulled, the graceful teardrop shaped formed by his finger and his thumb as they grasped the match between them. A quick motion, a flash, a flame. His hand glowed orange from the heat.

Pulling in her breath, she watched as he nudged the flame against the wick until there was a faint sizzling sound and pulled the match away, shaking it out, leaving behind its creation burning small but bright in the lamp.

"It worked!" Amy almost shouted.

"Of course it worked, it's a matter of basic science." He adjusted the knob on the side until the flame grew taller and brighter and stronger. Already, it was putting out more light, softer light, than the flashlight. "Pass me the chimney."

The delicate glass was handed over and Sheldon set it gently into the prongs and then rocked back on his heels. The glow was even brighter now, bathing Sheldon's face. Amy clicked off the flashlight.

"It's beautiful," Amy said.

"The chimney is necessary to both prevent a draft and to promote a stronger light. See how it constricts? It helps to direct the oxygen to the flame, producing a smokeless light which is brighter than an open flame would produce."

"Well, then, the science is beautiful."

Sheldon looked up, the flame catching his blue eyes as they pierced her. "It always is."

Unsure why, Amy blushed. He was correct; as a scientist herself, the mysteries revealed to her under her microscope were nothing short of sublime. Perhaps it was being caught saying something that should have been obvious, and yet she had sounded surprised instead. There was something in Sheldon's gaze, the way he managed to hold her with his eyes that seemed to discombobulate her.

But he finally blinked and looked away, gingerly picking up the lamp once more. If Amy had thought he was holding it like a treasure previously, now that it was lit his hands, sure and steady, lifted and carried it like it was priceless. He stood slowly, in absolute control of his movement and sat the lamp in the center of the mantle. The area in front of the fireplace was now a circle of soft light against the blackness of the room surrounding them.

Amy took in the reaches of the small flame. There was a set of fireplace tools, their brass glowing brightly. She leaned closer, noticing for the first time ever that they, too, were decorated to match the room. Originals, no doubt. There was even wood stacked neatly in a matching circular log holder, although Amy couldn't imagine the fireplace ever being used.

Across from the fireplace, just inside the velvet rope, was a large antique sofa that she remembered was upholstered in rich purple velvet, although so little light reached it that it currently looked black. The wood of its legs and edges were carved, too, matching the circulation desk and all the woodwork in the room. The back was curved, dipping down in the center but flaring up to exaggerated heights at each corner, the tufting curving in padded channels so as to cradle the person who would never sit there. Had anyone ever sat there?, Amy wondered. Perhaps when the library was brand new? Now the sofa, too, was an untouched museum piece.

"Fun fact: these types of flat wick kerosene lamps were widely used by railways as a signal at the front and rear of locomotive trains," Sheldon said, interrupting her thoughts. He had not moved, still watching the lamp burn in its new location. "It may not seem bright to us, but at the time, without electric light in the sparsely populated West, the brightness was adequate and could be seen at a fair distance." He looked over at her and shrugged. "I like trains."

"Is there anything you don't know?" Amy smiled in what she hoped was a coy manner.

"Very little."

Again, his gaze held her own for a second - or even two, Amy lost track - longer than was necessary. She had the strangest sensation that he was seeing the very core of her, the secrets that she kept wrapped deep in her viscera, away from the light of day. It was she who looked away sharply.

"What do we do now?" she asked.

"We could sit down."

Amy looked up at him in surprise, his outstretched arm indicating the purple sofa. "There? I'm sure it's not allowed."

"Who's going to stop us? Let's break all sorts of rules tonight."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Forgive me for saying so, but you don't seem like a rule breaker."

"Neither do you."

He was correct. Amy had never even incurred an overdue fee. She was a rule follower, not a rule breaker. And yet there was a part of her, a part that seemed to be struggling to break free of some invisible bond that she had only recently discovered. Could she throw (relatively minor) caution to the (almost non-existent) wind? Could she do this, not alone, but with the mysterious Dr. Sheldon Cooper?

Instead of answering directly, she walked toward the sofa, bending over to run her hand along the soft nap of the fabric. "Newly upholstered?" she asked although she already guessed the answer.

"Yes. No vintage fabric for you to fear ruining." He came and sat down on the sofa, then he patted the cushion next to him. As the circle of light from the lamp barely reached the sofa, he was dim and ill-defined sitting there, casting a great shadow over the carved wood.

Amy nodded and turned, settling onto the seat. It was surprisingly comfortable, not the hard surface she had expected. But it was also even deeper than it looked and her spine didn't reach the back of it. Bending over, she reached for the foot of her boot and tugged it off, first one than the other. She was aware of Sheldon watching her, but she didn't stop or slow or look back him. Her feet freed, she flexed her toes and planted her arms to pull herself all the way back into the sofa. It was deep enough her legs stuck out in front at an odd angle and her feet dangled.

"I didn't want to get it dirty," she explained, turning her face in time to see Sheldon's eyes rake down her body, from the barrette in her hair to her legs. They weren't even that exposed as she was wearing thick knee socks, but his study still made her feel exposed.

"So, Amy," his eyes flicked back to her, "do you feel like telling me why you come here every week, only to repeatedly read books clearly beneath your intelligence and educational level?"

* * *

_**Thank you in advance for your reviews!** _


	3. Chapter 3

_"Chuckling to herself, Nancy said aloud, 'Romance and detective work won't mix tonight!'"_  
\- The Bungalow Mystery  _by Carolyn Keene_

* * *

It was the 'Amy' she heard first, that lingered in her ears before the other words registered. She had always loved the way he said Ms. Fowler, but his use of her given name surprised and thrilled her. It was as though they had turned an invisible corner. Amy remembered their climb up the staircase earlier and her face flushed again. Amy. The first syllable came out as a drawl with just the hint of a twang she thought she'd heard in his speech before.

But the rest of the sentence, once she comprehended what was said, hit her like a slap. The flush on her face turned into a bright scarlet fever. Amy looked down sharply, hoping the dim light would shield her, and tried to pretend to be interested in the pattern of her sweater.

Sheldon didn't repeat the question or say anything at all, he just let the silence quiver and grow between them. Amy considered her options. She had already lied once, saying she only checked out Gray's Anatomy for the illustrations, but not every book she asked for on her rotating schedule was illustrated.

"I'm - um - I - " She coughed softly. "I like the room," she whispered.

"The restoration has been skillfully handled," Sheldon said calmly. Then nothing else.

"I like books. I like science."

"Ah, yes, the PhD in neuroscience."

Amy licked her lips. "I was . . . intrigued."

"A mystery?"

She nodded.

"Have you solved it yet?"

She glanced over, peeking at him beneath her eyelashes. "No. But I think I just might be on the verge of solving it."

"How do you plan on that?"

Amy swallowed, then took a deep breath. "I'm - I'm approaching it like a scientific experiment." She pulled her head up and dared to look him straight in the eyes. "I'm currently gathering data upon which to form my hypothesis. Or two. Then I will consider the steps involved in solving the mystery as tests. And, then, eventually, all will be revealed when the conclusion is made clear."

There it was again, the unexpectedly gentle smile. "I admire your methods."

Letting out an exhale of relief, Amy smiled back. She had managed to maneuver out of the situation, out of bearing secrets she did not entirely understand herself. "You know, it suddenly occurs to me this situation is a mystery -"

"Just one?" she heard Sheldon mutter.

"- like one of those locked room mysteries you read in Agatha Christie novels. Have you read them?"

Sheldon shook his head. "I prefer to read fantasies or comic books when I'm not studying academic texts."

"You should try them. They are exercise for an orderly mind. There are clues, and you have to sort through them, using logic and what facts you are given, to determine what is important and what is not. It is not so different than running an experiment." Amy settled further back into the corner of the sofa. She enjoyed this type of bookish conversation, and she wished that she and Sheldon would have had similar tastes in literature for them to discuss.

The snap of his fingers startled her. "The Nancy Drew room!"

"Yes?" She turned her head, pleased that he seemed about to explain his stray comment from earlier.

"Would you like to see it? Full disclosure: it involves breaking another rule. It's not open to the public. Even I'm not allowed to go into it without good reason. And I'm not sure this qualifies."

Amy stopped herself from jumping off the sofa. Now that she'd decided on a life (or at least an evening) as a rebel and rule-breaker, all she needed was the opportunity to prove she could be successful at it. But she managed to reply calmly, "In for a penny, in for a pound, I believe."

"Indeed. We'll need the flashlight." Sheldon pushed himself off the deep sofa, and Amy struggled to do the same. So much for being graceful and cool about her new life of crime.

But Sheldon didn't comment as he reached down to grab the flashlight from the floor. "This way."

He set off without giving her time to put her boots back on, although Amy didn't see how she would need them. The marble floor, though, was surprisingly cold and the chill seeped through even her thick boot socks. She padded behind him as he moved swiftly toward one of the book cases along the wall. The rarest books were not kept here, of course, being protected from the general public by the private staircase and walkway. Instead, the lower shelves where home to older copies of classic novels and such, books that looked appropriately vintage and atmospheric here in the reading room.

"Does anyone ever check these books out?" Amy asked. "I've never seen anyone using these shelves."

"Rarely," Sheldon explained as he stopped in front of the book case. "There are plenty of newer copies of all these books, usually in better condition, in the main library. Requests and holds are always filled from those stacks first. The only time a book would be taken from here is if all the other copies were checked out. Or if someone requested an exact copy, but that's very unusual. Hold this."

Amy took the flashlight from him as he pointed to the third shelf down. "Aim it here, we're looking for  _The Moonstone_."

"The Wilkie Collins mystery?"

"The very one."

Moving the flashlight along the spines, Amy read a few of the titles aloud. "It won't be here, these authors all start with S. We're in the wrong section. - Oh! Wait! There it is is!" She looked up at Sheldon, even though he was all but hidden from the path of the flashlight. "Why is it misshelved?"

"Because -" he reached up with hand and his index finger hooked over the spine of the book in question "- it's not a real book." His hand pulled back and there was an audible clicking from somewhere behind the shelf.

"No!" Amy yelped, turning the flashlight to look at it clearly. "Is this really a door hidden behind a bookcase? That only happens in Hardy Boy mysteries!"

Sheldon grinned as he ran his hand along the edge of the bookcase. "Or in Nancy Drew. That's why we call it the Nancy Drew room. But it's technically named The Moonstone Room."

It must have been heavy because the bookcase moved slowly as Sheldon pulled it away. Amy stepped back, both to give him room to work and to spread the light wider for both of them. As the door swung open, a reflection of light glinted back at her like stars from a distance. "What is it? This can't be real," she said.

"It can and it is." Sheldon reached over and took the flashlight from her. "After you. I assure you, it's perfectly safe."

After a quick glance at Sheldon, his grin still wide, Amy nodded and stepped into the door. The room was suddenly lit by the flashlight that he aimed over her shoulder as he followed closely on her heels, the shimmering walls almost blinding her. The only thing blocking them were irregular forms of what she presumed were furniture, covered in white dust clothes, large ghosts haunting the pale room.

"What makes the walls twinkle like that?" she asked.

"It's the wallpaper. It's real silver. It was just cleaned when the outer room was remodeled."

"Can I look?" Amy asked even as she stepped closer.

"Of course." He still followed her with the flashlight until Amy's face was only a few inches from the wall, as her eyes peered closely. The pattern was the same Art Nouveau tulip design as the outer room, but it had been minimized in scale until it looked almost geometric from a distance. The stems and leaves and petals were silver, woven across the snow white background.

Amy turned to look at Sheldon. "Why is this room hidden? What is its purpose?"

"We use it for storage; most of this is extra pieces of furniture that match the sofa out there. There's not enough room for it all in front of the fireplace." Sheldon curved the flashlight slowly around the room, catching glints off the wallpaper. Amy noticed another fireplace, apparently all marble with some sort of silver medallion in the mantel. He angled the flashlight upwards, and Amy gasped at the coffered ceiling, every inch of it covered in silver gilt. A large crystal chandelier hung in the center. She was surprised there were even windows, although she couldn't see out them as they were firmly covered in heavy draperies. This room was possibly even more ornate than the large reading room, but its smaller size made it feel intimate and feminine in a way the reading room could not.

"But surely it had a purpose when it was built. It's very . . . " Amy struggled for an adjective to adequately describe the feeling this room gave her. "Hopeful," she said suddenly, not realizing until the word was uttered that this room, for all its beauty, seemed somehow full of unfilled wishes.

"It's the private setting room Longbow had built for Cornelia when the library was constructed," Sheldon explained.

Amy had heard the name of the library's benefactor before. She vaguely knew the story, that he had built the opulent private lending library in the heady years leading up to World War I. It had remained private for many years, falling slowly into genteel disrepair as fewer and fewer people were willing to pay for a private library subscription until it was gifted to the city's public library system during the Great Depression. By that time, Longbow was said to be a bankrupt and bitter recluse. "Who's Cornelia?"

The flashlight swung, blinding Amy briefly before Sheldon lowered it. "Sorry," he said. "I was surprised. You don't know the story of the library?"

"I guess not."

"It's composed of sentimental malarkey and improbable happenings. You'd probably like it."

His words stung. "What is that supposed to mean?" she snapped.

"You've already made your strong interest in dime-store mystery novels apparent. They are not known for being plausible. You have assigned this room an emotion, which leads me to logically conclude you enjoy a saccharine tale or two." There was almost no emotion to his words, even if the adjectives he had chosen to describe her reading preferences where derogatory in nature.

"Well, well, you - you said you read fantasy novels! Dragons and elves and hobbits!" Her stocking foot stomped against the marble floor with far less of an impactful sound than she hoped.

Amy could barely make out that he raised a single alluring eyebrow again, as he was aiming the light away from himself. Even in the dark, though, she thought she could see his eyes, bright and sparking. "Fair enough," he conceded. "It seems we both enjoy some improbable happenings."

She swallowed hard and then coughed to clear her throat from something that had formed there. "But the story of the library, is it true or not?"

Sheldon shrugged. "I don't know if we can say now. There was a book published several years ago, in honor of the city's bicentennial, and the story was in there."

"What does it say?"

"If I'd ever read it, I'd recite to you." Amy furrowed her brow. That seemed like an odd thing to say. Was he really claiming he would remember it, word-for-word, if he'd only read it once? But his next words prevented her from asking. "Oh! I think it's here. In the reading room, I mean."

"Do you know what it's called? So we can find it?"

"No, but there's a way to find out." He moved toward the tallest piece of dust-covered furniture and pulled the white drape off with a flourish, releasing a confetti of dust particles into the beam of the flashlight.

Amy gasped as the beautiful piece was revealed in front of her, the wood a polished golden tone, the carvings on the side, the legs curved and shaped like tulips, their buds connecting to body of the piece. The front was covered in dozens of tiny drawers, each small pull a perfectly formed silver ladybug. It was the most exquisite card catalogue she'd ever seen.

"It's beautiful! I'd love to have it in my house."

"It's worth more than Robert Frost's lamp out there," Sheldon murmured. He looked over at her. "It's not updated anymore, of course, ever since the library switched to computer cataloguing in the nineties. But our book should be in here. Hold this."

' _Our book_.' She liked that.

He held out the flashlight for Amy again, and she wondered if she should just start being its full time caretaker, all this passing back and forth seemingly unnecessary. Sheldon reached for one the silver pulls, and Amy aimed the beam at his hands.

There, in the light, his fingers walked slowly along the top of the stiff cards, flipping first several at time and then going one-by-one. Amy watched the long digits stretch and curl back, his short nails catching the edges of the cream paper, the tendon in his wrist tightening with each quick flex of his hand. The opposite hand came to hold the drawer on the side, caressing the rail along its edge with his rounded thumb, an apparently unconscious movement, the gentle touch of holding a thing of such beauty, of such worth. It reminded her of the way his thumb touched her wrist on the stairs.

Amy gripped the flashlight until her knuckles ached as much as some other parts.

"Do you remember when you first learned all the world's information could be contained by three types of cards?" he asked softly, breaking her concentration. "Aha! Here it is!"

"Should we find something to write the call number down with?" Amy asked.

"No need." Sheldon shook his head as he shut the drawer. Amy reached down for the large canvas dust cover, but Sheldon put out his hand with a quick motion to stop her. "We should take this with us. We can use it as a blanket. We'll have to sleep at some point, I expect."

Amy raised her eyebrows, happy the light was facing away from her. We? Did he mean the implications or was he just using a figure of speech? It was a good idea; the chill on the bottom of her feet was becoming quite uncomfortable the longer she stood on the cold floor. But, instead of asking - after all, did she want to know the answer? - she let him gather up the drop cloth and she followed him out of the room, back through the open bookcase, and she held the flashlight as he carefully closed it behind them with another loud click.

Sheldon led them not back to the sofa by the fireplace, although he did drop the cloth on the seat as he walked by. Amy wove with him through the tables, trying to stay close to light his path as they moved further and further from the oil lamp, still burning where they had left it. He stopped at a bookcase and bent slightly, running his hand along the spines of a few books before pulling out a slender volume covered in blue cloth. Amy saw from the title that it was the history of their city.

Nothing was said as Sheldon led the way back toward the fireplace, and he moved the crumpled drop cloth to sit back on the sofa as nonchalantly as though he were in his own home. Amy wondered briefly about his home, what it looked like, as she took the seat next to him. After seeing his desk, she doubted it would be the mousy and untidy domain of most stereotypical librarians. She imagined a space reflective of his hobbies and interests, perhaps - thinking of his  _Star Wars_  coffee mug - filled with collectibles. But it would all be organized, just as the few items on his desk had been.

She watched him as he opened the cover of their book, the spine making that groaning-popping noise of an old and unused copy. His eyes darted beneath his eyelids as he skimmed something, and then he turned the pages. "Here we go: Longbow Tulip Library," he said. He looked over at her. "Shall I read it?"

"Is it bright enough? I don't want you to strain your eyes," Amy said.

"It'll be fine. It's only a couple of pages." He angled the volume toward the light.

"Okay, then. Please," Amy said, settling back into the sofa. She pulled her legs up, curling her feet under the warmth of her thighs and she reached for the drop cloth to cover her lap.

His voice was even and measured, calm and precise. Amy rested her head to the side, letting the velvet touch her cheek. The story started with the brief facts of Cornelius Longbow's early life, although he had been born as ver der Longdon. He was raised in a small town in the Netherlands and moved to a larger one in the early years of the twentieth century to work in the office of a prosperous tulip grower. There he met and fell in love with the owner's only daughter, the beautiful and sheltered Cornelia. But he only saw her from afar when she came to bring lunch to her father once a week. He knew that his employer would never allow the match for financial and class reasons.

"See?" Sheldon said, suddenly looking up at her. "A forbidden love affair. Straight out of every bad romance novel ever. How can you love someone you've only been staring at for a few months? That's not love, that's physical attraction."

Amy swallowed hard. "It could be true. Surely even you've heard of love at first sight. There are tulips carved all over this library, that must mean something. Besides, how many romance novels have you read?"

His only reply was the roll of his eyes and Amy chuckled. Looking back down, he continued to read. In 1911, things came to a head when the two young people returned at dawn from a night they claimed to have spent lost reading among the tulips - "Ridiculous," Sheldon interjected, "who spends a night in a tulip field with a virtual stranger and believes that will change the course of their lives? And lost? Tulips are a foot tall at most!" - and Cornelia's father both fired ver der Longdon and banished him from his propriety forever. Undeterred, ver der Longdon spent all of his money on two items: a moonstone necklace he gave to Cornelia in secret as a pledge of his love -

"You said that secret room is called The Moonstone room!" Amy interjected.

"It could just be that the story was written to explain the things in the library, not the other way around," Sheldon pointed out.

"Or this is how it really happened," Amy protested firmly.

He grunted and returned to the book "'- and steerage passage to America. He promised Cornelia, a known lover of books and reading, that he would become wealthy enough to appease her father, that he would build her a library so beautiful she would never long for the tulip fields of her homeland again, and then he would send for her to be his bride.'"

As he'd been reading, his free hand had fingered the upper corner of the book in a circular manner, and Amy watched, mesmerized, as he slipped two fingers into the slit between the pages and glided down, deeper into the book, curling them inward twice in a row before turning the page with finesse.

Amy let out a long, low breath.

"Is it making your romantic heart beat wildly?" Sheldon asked, looking over at her.

Embarrassed at being heard, Amy shrugged. "He gave her a library."

The story continued without reply from Sheldon. True to his word, ver der Longdon arrived in America via Ellis Island, changed his name to the more easily pronounceable Longbow, and made his fortune after he patented a more efficient way to refine silver. - "He was a scientist, too!" Amy interrupted. - Construction on the library started in 1913, and Longbow spared no expense both in materials and in the wages he paid the tradesmen to complete work in just over a year. Sheldon paused in his reading to ask if Amy wanted him to read the paragraph about the details of the decorations, and she told him no, as she had now seen all the ornamentations for herself.

"'At the height of summer,'" Sheldon continued, "'a grand fête was organized to celebrate the ribbon cutting of the new building on July 27, 1914.'"

"The day before World War I was declared," Amy said, her stomach plummeting as the realization that this would most likely not be a happily ever after struck her.

There was brief flare of hope as Cornelia accepted Longbow's long-distance proposal of marriage and even her father agreed that she should flee the war by traveling to America. Cornelia boarded the White Star liner  _SS_   _Arabic_  in 1915, wearing her moonstone necklace, and perished along with forty-three other passengers when it sank in less than ten minutes after being struck by a torpedo fired from a German U-boat.

Sheldon stopped reading and lowered the book, seeming to stare into the flame of the lamp on the mantel. After a moment of silence, he said, "Should I continue?"

"No," Amy whispered, looking at the lamp herself, the carved tulips above it almost appearing to dance as they undulated in the swaying flame of the light. It did not need to be said why the door to the hopeful sitting room had been hidden from sight. "She never got her library, and that's the most romantic gift I can imagine. Do you think she at least knew about it, before she left? They must have written letters in that time, right?"

"I don't know. It wouldn't have worked out, anyway. His name was Cornelius and hers was Cornelia."

Amy looked sharply at him, but he was still staring straight ahead. "Do you really think that? Not about their names, that's just a funny coincidence. Do you truly think it wouldn't work?"

She held her breath as she awaited his reply. She couldn't explain it, but his answer mattered very much to her. He was correct; the supposed history of the library was a clichéd story, something out of a movie and not reality. But it mattered nonetheless.

"Long distance relationships never work," Sheldon said quickly.

Perhaps he'd been burned by love from afar, Amy tried to reason as her chest fell. That had to be it. Pity started to replace her disappointment. "Or so I've heard," Sheldon mumbled softly, looking away.

Perhaps not.

"How - how do you know?" Amy ventured timidly, leaning closer to him, hoping less of a gap would entice him to share his secrets.

Straightening his shoulders and closing the book, Sheldon looked back at her. "I don't have first-hand experience, if that's what you're wondering. I am sure, given the rules of statistics, that there are some couples who defy the odds." He, too, leaned closer and his voice softened. "But it seems to me that they must have a very firm, very strong bond already in place, a deep well of love and emotion, a force so strong that neither time nor distance can break it. I do not know if studying someone from across a desk once a week for months and then spending a single night with them is enough to make it even worth the effort."

"But what about the power of belief, the force of optimism?" Amy countered, matching his quiet tone with her own soft protest. "Don't you think if there is a spark then there is the possibility of a fire? Doesn't the hope of love deserve to be fully explored?"

His face came even closer, so close she could memorize it, even in the dim. "I wish I knew. I wish I could answer your questions. I do not like not knowing things." Amy held her breath.

"Amy," he whispered, "I think there is something I need to tell you."

_To be continued . . ._

* * *

_**Thank you in advance for your reviews!** _


	4. Chapter 4

_"I cannot let you burn me up, nor can I resist you. No mere human can stand in a fire and not be consumed."  
__-_ Possession _by A.S. Byatt_

* * *

There is an oft-used expression that time seems suspended. Amy thought of it now and fully understood its meaning. It was as though the next words that Sheldon had yet to utter were already hovering between them in a thin bubble, waiting for the merest of pressures, just the force of her respiration, to break open and spread the light of this secret.

Instead, Sheldon's stomach growled. Loudly. The bubble didn't so much burst as deflate.

"I'm starving," Sheldon said and he pulled away, leaving a vacuum in his wake.

"Oh." Trying again, Amy said, "That's not what I thought you were going to say."

"Regardless of what I was going to say, my body is a well-honed machine that runs on an atomic internal chronometer. It is past time for my after-work meal."

"You eat after work? Isn't that a little late?" Amy asked.

"It bothered my circadian rhythms some at first, but now I'm used to it. I had to reset my schedule because we're not allowed to eat at the desk and I'm here between three and nine on work days. I rarely waver from my schedule, and that's made it quite manageable." Sheldon stood. "Are you hungry? Shall we forage?"

Understanding the moment, the bubble, the suspended time had been lost for good, Amy angled forward. "I'll forage with you. What did you have in mind?"

"Well, I always bring a water bottle, so we'll need that. And there are usually snack foods hiding in our office. Hand me the flashlight."

They set off again, Amy almost yelping when her feet hit the floor this time, it was so cold. But she walked with Sheldon as they moved to the office behind the circulation desk. She watched as Sheldon opened the large bottom drawer of his desk and drew out a pale colored bag. "My water bottle is in here," he explained. He reached over for his coffee mug and pulled the pens and pencils out in one handful, his grip tight enough and strong enough that the veins on the back of his hand popped out. "We can wash this out in the sink and then we can share."

"I'll do it," Amy volunteered quickly, and Sheldon looked over at her in surprise. "I need to use the restroom," she mumbled.

He nodded and passed the mug over to her. Amy took it and then said, "What will I do about light?"

"Forgive me. Take this." Sheldon flipped the flashlight around and held it out to her. "I make it a rule to never hold my phone in my hands while entering such a space, and I don't think you should, either."

"My phone!" Instead of taking the offered flashlight, Amy used her free hand to pat down the pockets of her denim skirt. They were empty. "What did I do with it? I had it earlier, when we were in here before."

"Perhaps you set it down somewhere? No matter, there's no service anyway. If service is restored or if morning comes, whichever is first, we will be able to hear it as we are alone in the space," Sheldon calmly pointed out.

Amy nodded, her cheeks flushing that she had panicked without reason. She took the flashlight and walked toward the bathroom, turning back to ask Sheldon about his need for light, but he turned on his phone at that exact moment, already ignoring her.

After she had returned from using the restroom and washing out the mug, Sheldon asked to swap light sources, again mentioning the dangers of taking an electronic device into a room with a bowl of water.

Once he closed the bathroom door, Amy sat down on his desk chair to wait for him. The messenger bag was setting on top now, much fuller-looking than it was a few minutes ago; Sheldon must have filled it with whatever food he found. She turned over his phone, so the flashlight wouldn't blind her, and his home screen was still visible. After a quick glance to confirm that there was still no service available, she looked furtively at the closed bathroom door before bringing the screen closer to study his icons. It occurred to her that perhaps these small tokens would reveal much about Sheldon's life. Instead, though, they only seemed to obscure him more. There were the standard icons for mail, Safari, the camera, and others. But there weren't any social media emblems at all, and it was only when her lips curled in disappointment that Amy realized she was disappointed. It would have been nice, she thought, to have followed him on Facebook or Instagram or even Snapchat, to see the various facets of his life that he choose to share. Although, she reasoned, it was not surprising. He was a private man; she still knew almost nothing about him other than he liked trains and the quiet of the library. And he hated romance.

She was determined to change that. There had been something, she was certain,  _something_  he wanted to tell her and she did not believe that it was about his nutritional needs or his daily schedule. Amy was convinced that he had been just about to share something deep and personal and profound with her before his stomach interrupted him. She considered whether it was related to the library founder's story, but he had made his disdain for the amorous tale clear. But there  _was_  something . . .

Amy turned off the flashlight and closed the screen on his phone, pondering the riddles in the darkness around her. It seemed a little spooky now, without any light. But there was some light, she noticed, the barest line of light coming from under the bathroom door and her eyes were drawn to it. And then the door opened and Sheldon was there, his form surrounded by light from the flashlight, almost blinding her after the inky black in which she'd been thinking.

"You're sitting in the dark?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Thinking."

"Plotting?"

"Planning."

He came to take his bag, swinging the long strap across his lean body, and Amy handed his phone back to him. "You found a lot of stuff."

"Yes, fortunately for us Brenda is part beaver. There was almost a whole pantry in her desk. I also have some paper."

"Paper?" Amy asked.

"It's getting really cold in here, don't you think? I don't think the heat is working. It must be powered by electricity in some fashion, maybe a heat pump. Will you grab my jacket?" He nudged his head in the direction of the coat rack.

The jacket was a light windbreaker, and Amy doubted it would be enough to keep him warm, even in combination with the dust cloth they already had. Her feet were no longer just chilled, they were freezing from walking and resting on the hard marble floor.

Sheldon was already leading the way back to the sofa, and Amy scrambled to catch up. He had never answered her question about the paper.

She thought he would return to the sofa, but, instead, he merely dropped his bag there and returned his phone to his pocket before stepping close to the fireplace, seeming to inspect the edge of where the limestone mantel met the wall next to it.

"Do you want your jacket?" Amy asked, coming close and switching off the flashlight. If he said no, she was thinking about wrapping it around her feet on the sofa.

"Not yet. Will you help me?" he asked. Just at that moment, he reached up to crank something and Amy heard a metallic chugging sound from high up the wall.

"What was that?"

"The lever to the damper. I opened the flue."

"Why?"

"We're going to build a fire," he said calmly as he stepped over to the log holder and started to grab a couple off the top.

"What? Are you crazy? That fireplace is a hundred years old and -"

"And it was cleaned and inspected and deemed safe by the fire marshal just six months ago. That's even a brand new fire extinguisher," Sheldon interrupted her, standing with the logs and nodding toward the ugly safety device strapped to the other side of the mantel. Amy tried not to notice the way the carrying of the timber made his upper arms bulge, revealing previously hidden muscles. "Aren't you cold?"

"Well, yes." Amy shifted, raising one frigid foot to rest it on top of the other. "But I don't know how to build a fire. My mother wouldn't let me join the Girl Scouts."

"No matter. A fire is a simple act of thermal dynamics. Will you get the paper out of my bag?"

Having run out of objections, Amy assisted him in building a fire. She had thought the tiny matches and the pile of paper meant for recycling would be insufficient, but it seemed only a brief time before the fire caught. Most surprising, the room didn't fill with smoke. All the while, Sheldon explained the physics of fires to her, speaking easily about combustion and double bonds.

Then he fell silent, and Amy watched him crouch in front of his creation, poking it with one of the antique tools, blowing softly on it, moving a log here or there until it was roaring in the grate. The fire was already much brighter than the lamp above it, and his cheeks flushed and his eyes reflected the flames. Once again, she was struck by how controlled and purposeful his movements were, how there was no wasted time or motion. His lips were set, and Amy watched his profile in silence and interest. Sheldon coaxed the fire gently, he studied it and assisted it, he cared for it almost lovingly.

"That's much warmer, don't you think?" he asked, standing straight at last.

Smiling, Amy discovered she had already forgotten the chill as the heat had slowly seeped in through her socks and her cardigan. "Much. Thank you."

"Help me with the sofa, we'll bring it closer."

As there no longer seemed to be any real danger from the fire, Amy helped heave the couch a couple of feet nearer to the fire, but it was Sheldon who did most of the heavy lifting.

Now more comfortable, they settled in to eat, Sheldon pulling each of his finds out of the messenger bag as though they were great treasures. There was the water bottle, of course, plus an unopened sleeve of saltine crackers, a half-consumed jar of peanut butter, two Snickers bars, a banana that looked past its prime, an apple, and a small bag of potato chips.

Then Sheldon's head snapped up. "I hope you're not allergic to nuts, like you are to penicillin."

"Penicillin?" She furrowed her brow.

He pointed with the water bottle. "Your bracelet."

"Oh!" Amy wrapped her opposite hand around the thin metal strand at her wrist. "My mother always made me wear it. I guess I'm so used to it, I've forgotten about it." She looked back up at him, surprised and touched that someone had noticed. No one ever noticed. "But, no, just penicillin and avocados."

"Good." There was something new, something tender and genuine contained in this simple word.

"Let's eat! It looks like a feast!" Amy cheered, pulling the drop cloth over her to warm her further. She had not thought she was hungry, but her mouth watered at the sight of the food.

Sheldon pulled out the last item and it caught the light. "Do not fear, I even found a knife that appears perfectly clean; we will not be forced to dig in the jar with our dirty fingers like savages." Amy laughed and Sheldon looked over at her in surprise. "You are enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Actually, yes. We're warm, we're dry, we have food, plenty to read if we chose, good company . . ."

After he tilted his head slightly, Sheldon nodded. "I think you are correct."

"I know I am." Scooting closer to the center of the sofa so that she could reach for the sleeve of crackers, Amy said, "I have a proposal to make."

"Yes?"

"Since we're stuck here together, I think we should try to get to know each other a little more." She pulled apart the end of the sleeve, hoping her hands did not shake and give her away. "For every cracker we eat, we have to say something about ourselves."

"How about that for every cracker we eat, we say something about last week's episode of  _Green Arrow."_

"I've never seen it," Amy told him, pulling a cracker out. "See, now you know something about me. That's your last freebie."

"You know I watch  _Green Arrow_."

"Okay," Amy said, "for every three crackers we eat, we say something about ourselves."

"For every one-fourth of the sleeve we eat, we may or may not ask the other person a question, that he or she may or may not chose to answer."

Amy shook her head. "Too many 'ors.' Every time we reach for the peanut butter -" she stretched to grab the jar "- we answer a question. No excuses."

"Very well," Sheldon said with a sigh. Amy grinned in triumph. "I can eat my crackers plain, then." Amy's face fell.

"You need protein."

"There are Snickers."

Frustrated, Amy took a deep breath. "Fine. Let's sit here in silence, like uncaring strangers on a bus."

"But we're not strangers," Sheldon said, surprisingly soft. "I thought we were friends."

"Friends?" Amy looked up at him. "We're friends? Earlier tonight you referenced our acquaintanceship."

"But now I've seen your stocking feet and I'm preparing to share a communal utensil with you. If that's not friendship, I don't know what is."

Amy paused a second, unsure how to take that. But there was the genuine note in his voice, again. "Okay, to my friend," she smiled as passed him the jar of peanut butter. "Go ahead, ask me something. You already confessed you watch  _Green Arrow_."

"Hmmm," Sheldon said as he studiously spread peanut butter on a cracker. She watched him, the way he held the cracker with the gentlest grasp of his fingers so as to avoid crushing it contrasted with the controlled, firm movement of the knife with the other hand. "Where did you grow up?"

"Orange County, California. You?"

"East Texas." He passed the jar and the knife over to her.

"That explains the accent."

"I don't have an accent!" Sheldon protested, almost spilling the water he was pouring into the coffee mug.

Amy smirked and prepared a cracker. "Favorite television show? Unless it's  _Green Arrow_  and then I get another question."

" _Star Trek: The Next Generation_."

"I'm never seen it."

"Good grief, woman! Do you even own a television?" Sheldon asked, as he held out the mug of water to her.

"I do. My favorite show is  _Masterpiece_  on PBS. Okay, then, why  _Star Trek_?" she queried as she took the mug.

" _Star Trek: The Next Generation_. It's an important difference. I like many things about it, but especially the character of Wesley Crusher. He has an eidetic memory, just like I do."

Taking a bite of cracker and chewing it, Amy considered this. Was it true? Some neuroscientists didn't even believe in eidetic memories. Yes, Sheldon seemed to have a lot of interesting facts quickly at his disposal, but that could just be another sign of his obvious intelligence. She thought about his statement in the sitting room, that if he'd read the book then he would be able to recite it to her. Although she was itching to test him out, she decided to let it pass without debate. He obviously believed it and the point of this exercise was to learn more about him.

Thinking of her exercise, Amy didn't know how long he would agree to continue it, but she felt it was expedient to dive into deeper waters. "What made you become a librarian? And don't say the quiet, you've already mentioned that."

"Well, it's true." He paused. "I always thought I'd be a theoretical physicist, and my bachelor's degree is in physics. I was working on my master's thesis in it, and I found myself distracted in the library. I was more interested in the old patent drawings and manuscripts and scribblings of these great men - and woman! Marie Curie wrote fascinating letters - than I was in my work. It was like seeing a spark, especially their private notes, like being present at the very beginning of something life-altering."

As he had been speaking, his face lit up, and not just because Amy could see it so much more clearly by the brighter blaze of the fire. He felt strongly about this, and just the idea of it made him drop the dark and solid mask he seemed to wear. Sheldon turned sharply to her and she blinked, aware she'd been caught staring. "So, I changed my focus. It's always been my dream to become the Curator of Physics at the Dibner Library -"

Suddenly, there was a howling noise as rained lashed against the transom windows again. "The second wave of the storms," Amy said. "I saw it on the radar before I came. I hope it doesn't put out the fire."

"It won't. Chimneys are designed for rain. Plus, I built the fire. It's impermeable," Sheldon said and paused. "Anyway, I want to live surrounded by such moments. I know I could make my own," he shrugged, "but, well . . . there's something about libraries, isn't there?"

Then there was another of his beautiful, genuine smiles.

"Yes." Amy smiled back.

Amy felt so comfortable now, sitting close to him. And Sheldon looked more at ease than she'd ever seen him, munching on crackers as they worked companionably, passing the peanut butter back and forth between them.

"How about you?" he asked. "Why neuroscience?"

"Oh. Well, it's not so interesting as your story. I like a good mystery. The brain is still a mystery."

"It hardly seems fair for your little experiment if I say approximately one hundred words to every ten of yours," Sheldon pointed out.

Amy flushed and looked down. "I'm worried you'll be disappointed. It's actually simple. I like science, I like math, and I'm good at them. My life has been . . . boring. I mean, I'm plain enough to be here every Saturday night, enduring the pity of middle-aged strangers. I have yet to have a magical moment in a library like you have." Amy held out the knife for him.

Sheldon's hand surrounded hers over the knife, not grasping the utensil but holding her hand steady. His thumb swiped her wrist and her heart pattered in response. "Do not discount yourself, Amy. I think you're . . ." He coughed slightly, pulling his hand away. "I mean, isn't this unexpected interlude in a beautiful library magical enough for a seasoned hopeless romantic like you?"

Chastised, Amy looked away. The truth was it was enough, she just didn't know if she should say so.

"Do you have any siblings?" Sheldon asked suddenly, biting into another cracker.

Supposing she should be grateful that he'd saved her from too much embarrassment, Amy replied, "No, I'm an only child."

"I'm jealous. I have two siblings, including a twin sister, and they are dumber than door knobs," he told her.

"Don't be. It was a very lonely childhood," Amy said sharply. "Books were my only friends, my only escape." After a deep breath, she added, "I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm acting like this."

"I thought you were being honest." Sheldon looked over at her. "My childhood was unhappy, also. It is not easy to be the smartest one in the classroom. I think that is something we share, is it not?"

Amy nodded softly, wrapping her hands around the mug as though it contained warm tea instead of cold water. She wished it did. "Thank you for understanding."

Sheldon held up the almost-empty sleeve of crackers and raised his eyebrows in a questioning fashion, and Amy waved her hand. He carefully sealed everything up and returned the food to his bag. Amy drained the last of her water and passed the mug over to him. He sat it on the floor next to the water bottle.

"What's your favorite fictional book?" he asked, tactfully changing the subject. "Not a mystery, we've already had enough of that for one night."

" _Possession_ ," Amy answered without a second's hesitation.

" _Possession_?"

"By A.S. Byatt. It won the Mann Booker Prize," she said.

"Tell me about it." He rotated in his spot then, pulling up his leg to face her. His genuine interest pleased her, and she mirrored his actions, curling her legs up next to her on the sofa, leaning even closer to him.

"Well, it is a mystery of sorts -"

"I knew it!"

Amy smiled. "But not like an Agatha Christie or a Nancy Drew, a who-done-it. It's about solving a literary mystery from the past. There's a scholar, Roland, and he's in a library -"

"Not surprising."

Amy shot Sheldon a little glare and the corners of his lips turned up. "Go on," he encouraged.

"Anyway, he finds this original letter that a famous poet, Randolph Henry Ash, wrote. It's caught between the pages of forgotten book. It's obviously some sort of love letter. But not." Amy screwed up her lips. "I guess you would say it's the hopes of a love letter. Ash has met someone and she's captured his imagination, and he's writing to her because he wants to get to know her better. He believes there is something there, that they made a connection no matter how briefly they met."

Sheldon tilted closer. "And?"

"Roland doesn't know who the woman is, because it's a rough draft, so her name isn't on it. The novel is about what he does to find out who it is. It's told from multiple points-of-view, from Roland and Maud - that's a fellow scholar who starts helping him in his search - and there's sections told in the past, Ash's story and that of the mystery woman."

"Do we find out who she is?"

"Yes. Actually, fairly early in the story. The mystery isn't so much who she is but what happened between her and Ash," Amy explained.

"Which is?" He seemed genuinely eager now.

"I don't want to ruin it for you! You should read it, it's a masterpiece of the English language. And not just on a technical level, although that's true. It's about longing and secrets and the meeting of minds even as they are caught in circumstances beyond their control, the power of love, how even brief spans of time can shape our lives." Amy took a deep breath and shook her head. "I'm not doing it justice. You should read it."

"Ah, but remember, I don't read anything that doesn't have elves or dragons or hobbits in it," Sheldon said gingerly.

Amy blushed and looked down, chastised. "I didn't mean -"

"It's okay, you're not so wrong. Just tell me about it. I like hearing you talk about it. You're so passionate." He waved his hand and it came to rest on the drop cloth, but her knee was beneath it. Amy wondered if he knew, but he made no effort to remove it. She wanted to bend closer, to study his hand, the hand she so admired that close to her body, but she didn't want to make him realize where it was and remove it.

Swallowing, she looked up and continued, "Ash and Christabel - that's her name - they write letters, many, many letters, and they are beautiful and they're about books and literature and - and they're about love without ever saying they're about love. It's like they're falling in love but they refuse to give it a name."

"They never meet again?" Sheldon asked, his voice hushed, adjusting his hand as he edged closer, sending sparks up Amy's thigh.

Shaking her head, Amy licked her lips. "They do. They take a trip together, one they know will only be a couple of weeks. They go somewhere they can be hidden, where no one will see them together. It's a stolen interlude, you see, they plan it that way. There's a scene, they're in a train, at the beginning of their journey - it's my favorite part. I've read it so much I've memorized it."

"Please." Amy wasn't even sure if he'd said it or if he just mouthed the word.

"'This is where I have always been coming to. Since my time began. And when I go away from here, this will be the mid-point, to which everything ran, before, and from which everything will run. But now, my love, we are here, we are now, and those other times are running elsewhere.'"

Somehow, she knew it was going to happen and she closed her eyes just as his lips grazed hers. It was the barest of actions, ephemeral and evanescent, but it held her whole body in its power.

Too soon, it was over and she opened her eyes slowly. Sheldon was right in front of her, his blue eye wide, the roaring fire in the grate reflecting off his black pupils. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't know what came over me."

"Don't be," Amy whispered back. "Do it again."

His lips were warm and soft and gentle, and they touched hers with grace and care. She remembered him at the fire, the way he nurtured it, and it felt like he was doing the same to her. Sheldon's hand came up from her knee, and he brought it to hold her neck. His fingertips skimmed over her pulse and she exhaled softly.

Sheldon adjusted his mouth slightly and she felt the delicate point of his tongue against her lips. Amy let him in, catching and stopping a moan as his hot tongue, smooth and wet and vaguely peanut-buttery, brushed against hers, sliding with ease against her teeth.

It was not until she was falling slowly backwards that she realized Sheldon's other hand had come to her waist, guiding her. The kiss was broken and she opened her eyes to see him lying her down, reaching up at the last moment to cushion her head from the wooden armrest. Amy adjusted her legs, unfolding them, and the drop cloth fell off her lap and onto the floor. It didn't matter; she was warm enough without it now.

He smiled softly at her from above, ghosting his thumb over her cheek and she whimpered at this slight touch. His fingertips came to rest on the temple of her glasses and he said, "May I?"

Amy nodded and Sheldon carefully removed her spectacles. Her focal point such that it only sharpened the relief of his face as he folded them in front of her. "I'm going to set them down here, under the sofa, right next to this leg, so you can find them again."

"Okay."

Having done as he promised, he rearranged himself on the sofa, sitting along side her, angling over her, resting his arm on her waist. Her cardigan, never buttoned, had flopped open and he slipped his hand in between it and her floral blouse just above her skirt.

More comfortable with the feel of his lips and his tongue, Amy felt bolder this time, tentatively joining him in this kiss, becoming an equal participant. Somewhere, in the back of her brain, she wondered if this was all a dream, if this was really happening to her. Nerdy, lonely, Amy Farrah Fowler was not destined to make out with Hottie Librarian. It was just as fantastical as any romance novel.

His mouth pulled away from hers and encircled her earlobe and she moaned deeply, suddenly grateful her mother had never let her pierce her ears. As he continued to lavish attention upon the small appendage, she felt his fingertips move to the top button of her blouse. "Amy," he whispered into her ear, his hot breath filling the space.

His fingers had stilled around the button, and she could feel the soft heat of the pads of them even through the fabric of her shirt. "Amy," he whispered again, lowering his face to kiss her neck.

"Sheldon," she exhaled back.

He kissed her neck again before looking up and she met his eyes. "Amy?"

It was then she realized it was not just that he was uttering her name in pleasure, but that it was also an entreaty, a request. She held his gaze and considered his body pressed close to hers, the hot points of his fingers, the softness of his lips, the coolness of her ear now that he'd left it.

Did she want this? Did she want to lose her virginity here, like this, in a library built for love, in the middle of a rainswept night, on an antique sofa, bathed in the pool of soft light from a roaring fireplace, surrounded by books, to a handsome librarian whose name she'd learned mere hours ago, a librarian that was more of a mystery than he was a man?

Sheldon flattened his palm upon her décolletage, his blue eyes still locked upon hers, and she felt like she'd been branded by his heat and light.

Of course she did.

* * *

_**Thank you for your patience in waiting for this chapter. Maybe I was wrong, but I just didn't want to flood my readers with too many different stories at once. I hope it was worth the wait! Let me know your reviews!** _


	5. Chapter 5

_"'I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong.'"_  
_-_ Northanger Abbey _by Jane Austen_

* * *

"Yes!" she implored, a cry of surrender willfully given.

If the moments before the cry of desire had been still, as though time had stopped as his eyes and his palm sent heat in Amy's direction, the moments after the beseechment were a rush of passion.

No sooner had the final hiss of the  _S_  left her lips then Sheldon was there, almost as though he was drinking the last syllable from her mouth in his eagerness. Amy met him with equal ardor, swiping and dancing and twirling with him, her body suddenly alive with so many sensations and experiences that her brain struggled to categorize them. There was not just his tongue, pulsing against hers, but there was also the undeniable realization that he was unbuttoning her blouse. The pad of his index finger circled each button just before his thumb slipped under the placket and caught the edge of the button with his nail, lifting it at the exact same second his other fingers gently coaxed it to its release. Then he repeated the same tender actions on the next, the dance of his fingers hypnotizing her as they worked down her body.

The cold air of the room swept across her stomach and it contracted sharply. Sheldon pulled up from the kiss, his eyes questioning her.

"I'm - it's just cold," she muttered.

He nodded and placed his hand there, spreading his fingers wide over her navel so that the heat burned into her flesh. "Better?"

"Oh, yes."

Another searing kiss before he pulled back suddenly, grabbing his tee shirts at the back of his neck and pulling them up and over his head, off of his body. Over the plunking sounds of his shoes falling on the marble floor, Amy gasped. She knew his skin was pale, but she had not expected such a beautiful, even color. The soft color of his chest caught the light and reflected off the flames in the fireplace and he seemed glow, to burn from within. And his body! Even spying his biceps earlier, she had not expected what she saw, the muscles that rippled and shifted beneath that skin. Weren't librarians supposed to be scrawny and weak? Sheldon, though, was no stereotypical bookish wimp; he was Atlas, strong and defined as he gripped the back of the sofa, looming above her, brawny and strapping.

He lowered himself, and this time his body covered over hers, his legs entangling with hers, pushing them apart with his knees, and Amy bit her tongue to keep from moaning out in a combination of desire and surprise as she felt what could only be his arousal pressing hard against her thigh. It, too, was not what she expected.

"Amy," he whispered again, this time his voice hoarse and heavy as his lips captured hers. She almost melted into the sofa when he caught her bottom lip between his teeth and teased it there, holding it and taunting it between the sharp surfaces. Her breath came fast and hard as his hand slid up her torso to hold her bra-covered breast gently.

Her lip was released and she felt the tingling of blood rushing back into it. "Put your hands on me," Sheldon ordered. Then, softer, as he brushed her ear, "Please. I want you to touch me."

Not sure what exactly he meant by "me" (did he, could he, mean . . . down there?), Amy brought her hands up to touch the sides of his waist. "Yes," Sheldon hushed into another kiss, this one upon her temple. Emboldened by his encouragement, she wrapped her arms around him and followed the curves of his muscles up his back, to his broad shoulders. Her eyes closed and she tilted her head back as Sheldon slowly explored her face his lips, even as she slowly explored the planes of his body. It was like a blind person reading Braille for the very first time: over the top of his shoulders, down the hard bulges of his biceps, forward to the round curves of his pectorals.

He was the book, and she was the reader.

Sheldon pressed his groin nearer to the apex of her thighs, backing away slightly and pressing again even harder. Amy was aware, somewhere on the edge of the pleasure she was riding, that only a few layers of fabric separated them, and her own nether regions pulsed and ached for him to find his way there.

"Sheldon," she moaned out, and then groaned deeply as her hips jerked up when she felt his thumb slide beneath the edge of her bra. His finger must have joined it as she felt her nipple being rolled and encircled with the soft pads of his beautiful, beautiful hands. "Oh, Sheldon," she almost wept, her hands struggling between them as she tried to find his belt and this time it was her mouth that greedily sought and found his, his lips hot and wet.

Just has his entire palm freed her breast from its imprisonment, a moment of clarity struck her. She'd pulled away from the kiss, her fingers curling around the leather of his belt, and she opened her eyes. "Do you have protection?"

Everything stopped.

He still lay on top of her, his desire for her hot and hard and larger than she imagined, her desire for him having soaked through her depths, her breast still cupped in his hand, her lips still plumped and sweetly sore from his kisses. His blue eyes stared down at her, and once again she was struck by how clearly the fire reflected in them.

A shake of his head and he pulled up sharply, completely away from her, leaving her stretched out on the sofa, her chest exposed and her legs spread, even her panties on display as her skirt had inched up around her waist. She felt completely empty of him already, and she'd never even been full.

In one quick motion Sheldon stood, reaching down to grab his tee shirts and pulled them back on fiercely, before walking toward the fireplace. Once again, he left only palpable absence in his wake.

"Sheldon?" Amy pulled herself upright and tried her best to rearrange her bra, pulling her blouse tight around her like a robe, suddenly embarrassed by the nakedness she had just wanted him to explore. "I'm - I'm sorry, it's just that . . . I mean, we have to be practical."

"Of course," he growled, putting his forearm along the tall mantel and leaning his forehead against it. He was blurry at this distance without her glasses, but she could tell he had turned away from her, and Amy took the opportunity to rebutton her blouse and tuck it into her skirt as she tugged it down to cover her thighs. She pulled up a sock, which had started to ride down her shin in all the commotion. Even her hair seemed tangled, and she tried to comb it and smooth it with her fingers.

Once she was put together again, she stood and walked toward the fireplace, to see him better. He hadn't put his shoes back on, and now she understood what he meant about the intimacy of seeing someone's stocking feet. When Sheldon didn't turn to look at her, she stretched her hand out to touch his back. He jerked away, and Amy snatched her hand back as though she'd been burned.

"I didn't mean to make you angry," she whispered.

"I'm not," he grumbled. Then he straightened and turned to look at her. But his face was firm and blank, the mask having returned, not at all the soft and open face she'd discovered. "It is I who should be apologizing. I should not have . . . encouraged such an activity if we were not in a position to complete it safely. It was a mistake, the whole thing."

She had to look away, to squeeze her eyes shut to hold back the tears she felt prickling there. It was a surprise and a fantasy and poorly planned, but it was not a mistake. "But it -"

"It's fine. It was a mistake, but it's over now." He looked back at the fire. "It's probably late. You should try to sleep."

Amy knew when she had been dismissed. She scuttled back to the sofa, picking the drop cloth up off the floor from where it had fallen and dragging it over her as she curled up on the sofa, turning toward the blackness of its crevice, her eyes full of unshed tears, her back toward the fireplace and the man standing there who had somehow managed to wound her more deeply than she'd ever thought was possible.

* * *

First there was cold air rushing at her back and then something strong and soft and warm replaced it.

"Mmmm?" Amy murmured.

"Shhh, go back to sleep. You were shivering. With your permission, I will keep you warm," Sheldon whispered softly. "Nothing else."

She rolled over, half asleep, burying her face into his soft tee shirt, and Sheldon's arms gathered her close. "I'm sorry, Amy," he said as he tucked her head beneath his chin. "For so many reasons."

Then there was a dream in which she remembered to ask what they were.

* * *

A violent shiver awoke her, and she clutched for her quilt even before her eyes were open. But it was not her quilt that Amy's hand grasped. A stiff fabric rustled in her palm. Opening her eyes, she realized it had not all been a dream.

Without her glasses, Amy could not make out the ceiling far above her, but she knew the painting well. Hypatia, on one side of the harbor of Alexandria, extending her arm out toward the library and the lighthouse on the other. The water was white-capped, churning and choppy, the portent of a storm coming. Her fingers didn't quite reach the protection and knowledge on the opposite shore, and she was locked for all of time yearning for what she could not have.

It was said the painted ceiling was added later, sometime in the 1920s, which is why some complained it did not match the rest of the library. And it didn't. Instead of the sinuous curves of Art Nouveau, there were only the sharp and jagged points of Art Deco. There were no tulips or silver ladybugs, no opulent hope of love. Despite the dazzling deco colors, disappointment permeated its paint.

Amy wondered briefly how the ceiling had originally looked and what prompted the new painting, and she wished she'd had asked Sheldon to read the end of the story to her so that her questions might be answered.

Sheldon.

Sitting up with a frown, Amy looked around. Morning had dawned clear and bright, but it must have been very early as the sunbeams entered the windows above at a sharp angle. Although there was enough light that she could make out everything in the room, the rays did not yet reach the bottom set of bookshelves, leaving a layer of gloom. The heavy canvas dust cover was gone, and she was trying to keep warm only by the weight of Sheldon's thin windbreaker. The fire had burned out. After reaching down for her glasses, she surveyed the area around her more carefully.

If she didn't have such lucent memories, she would have thought it was a dream. Other than the ashes in the grate, there was no other evidence of what had passed. The book about the city was gone. A quick glance told her the lamp was absent, too, most likely returned to its place in the glass cabinet. There were no signs of Sheldon's messenger bag or his coffee mug. There were no signs of Sheldon.

Apparently, he had gotten up earlier and silently put the library back together while she slept. These unspeen actions of his made her chest ache. It was as though he was eager for their time together, no matter how it ended, to be as far away from him as possible. He was acting out the hurtful words he'd said last night.

_'It was a mistake, but it's over now.'_

Amy's bag had been placed next to her rain boots, and her cell phone rested on top of it. So he'd found it. She picked it up and turned it over, pleased to see service was restored. A quick glance at the time confirmed her suspicions. Quickly riffling through her bag, she noticed that Sheldon had returned her notebook, pencil, and other supplies; somehow he'd neatly determined exactly what order she normally kept them in. She returned the phone to where it belonged and tugged on her boots.

Just as she stood, she heard Sheldon's voice. She looked toward it and found him as he walked along the catwalk, her first glance of him almost blinded by one of the rays of the sun that covered him, but he quickly stepped beyond it, into the gray obscurity of the rest of the room. Although he moved quickly, she noticed he took the spiral stairs one at a time instead of usual two, and she couldn't hear his feet over the sound of his voice. But he was not speaking to her; he was on his phone.

"Going there now."

He walked purposely toward the metal grate, never so much as glancing over at her. He raised his hand, punched a few buttons on the keypad, and the gate started to rise. "Okay, see you in a minute." He put down his phone.

Amy grabbed her bag and his jacket before walking toward him, only stopping to re-attach the red velvet cord. The sofa was still in the wrong position and the fireplace would need cleaned, but those were the only signs that anything unusual had happened.

"Sheldon?" she asked, as the gate almost completed its ascension.

At last, he turned, but there was no fire in his eyes. "Good morning. I hope you slept in an acceptable manner."

Before Amy could respond, the glass double doors opened and two people entered in a burst of energy. There was one tall woman she'd never seen before and Brenda. The tall woman went straight to Sheldon, but Brenda ran toward Amy, grabbing her in a firm embrace.

"Oh, you poor dear! Are you alright?" Brenda gushed. "I couldn't believe it when Sheldon called me this morning!"

"Yes." Amy relaxed into Brenda's plump form, welcoming the hug. "Thank you."

"Do you need anything? Have you eaten?" Brenda pulled away to talk to her, but she kept her hands on Amy's arms.

"I'm not hungry." Then, seeing how concerned Brenda was, she added, "We ate last night. I'm sorry, we had your peanut butter and crackers. I'll repay you."

"I wouldn't hear of it! I'm just glad they were there for you. Did you sleep?"

"On the sofa by the fireplace."

"It's freezing in here!" Brenda barked. She swung her face toward the tall woman. "We should send somebody to look at the heat."

Brenda started to rub her hands vigorously up and down Amy's arms, and Amy welcomed the warmth it generated. "You must have been chilled to the bone!"

Amy shook her head. "Sheldon built a fire and we moved the sofa closer," she said softly, glancing apologetically over at him. Well, they were bound to find out when they saw the ashes.

"Oh, my goodness gracious! It sounds just like a scene out of  _Northanger Abbey_!" Brenda exclaimed and Amy smiled in spite of herself. Yes, it had been very much like an overly romantic fantasy Catherine Moreland would have cooked up in her imagination. "Thank you so much, Sheldon, for taking care of her," Brenda continued, calmer now, extending her arm toward him. He walked closer.

"Yes, thank you," Amy added to her appreciation, holding out his jacket. It was true, he had been so kind and helpful and knowledgeable, and she probably would have starved and shivered in the dark all night without him.

Sheldon seemed to open his mouth, but then the tall woman called to him and he grabbed his jacket with a snap, walking away again.

Leaning in, Brenda whispered, "He's so brilliant, did he tell you? An actual genius, child prodigy and all that. I mean, he's a bit odd, you know, but he could have been anything he ever wanted, and he decided to be a librarian. Isn't that lovely?"

"Yes." Amy meant it.

"You were so lucky he was here!"

"I know." She meant that, too.

"I would have been perfectly useless. I don't know the first thing about fires. And I'm terrified of the dark. If this had happened just one week later, I hate to think what would have happened." Brenda shook her head.

"One week later?" Amy asked, her brow furrowing.

"Well, he is a secretive one, isn't he? All night and he didn't even tell you that yesterday was his last day here. He got the job of a lifetime, he's moving to Washington D.C. to be Curator of Physics at the Smithsonian Dibner Library!"

"What?"

"Oh, don't let it worry you, almost no one's heard of it. It's such a niche library, but it's also the pinnacle for scientific rare manuscript work. He's already packed up and he's leaving tomorrow, as a matter of fact. Can't wait to get there and start." Brenda sighed deeply. "We'll miss him, of course, but it's an opportunity too good to pass up."

"He's leaving?" Amy croaked. "He's moving?"

"I know, dear, I'm just heartbroken about the loss of good help. Oh, we had that disagreement about the dress code when he started, but his work was so excellent, I let it pass. He's such an orderly employee, always on time." Brenda picked up one of Amy's hands again and patted it between hers. "Oh, here he comes! You can congratulate him yourself!"

Indeed, Sheldon came to stand near to them, his windbreaker on and his messenger bag slung over his shoulder. "Well, Ms. Fowler, it seems our adventure is at a close. It was -" He stopped and his brow furrowed slightly. "Are you unwell? You're extremely pale."

"I think she's in a little bit of shock about the whole experience, poor dear," Brenda added, still patting Amy's hand. "She probably needs breakfast."

"Of course. If you like, I'll walk you down the street to the Starbucks on the next block. It's my understanding they have tea and pastries there."

Amy just stared at him, speechless. "You're - you're talking about tea and pastries?" she finally managed to say.

"Yes. Forgive me for saying so, but you are looking very peaked. Some weak tea might settle your stomach," Sheldon said.

This was not the Sheldon that had nurtured a fire or read her a love story or smiled with her over crackers. And it most certainly was not the Sheldon who kissed her and touched her and set her body ablaze in the night. This was just Dr. Cooper, calm and serene and focused on solving a problem - an orderly employee.

"You're moving away and you think we ought to eat breakfast together?" Amy asked.

"I don't see that the two are mutually exclusive."

"You're moving away and you didn't think you should tell me that before - before - that!" Amy thrust her pointed finger out toward the sofa, her voice trembling.

"Oh, my dear, you must calm yourself. There's nothing to get so worked up about," Brenda clucked and Amy pulled her hand out of her grasp.

"I tried to tell you. Several times. But things just keep interrupting," Sheldon protested feebly.

"I thought this was the beginning of something!" Amy cried and ran away from them both, pushing hard against the heavy double doors, through the lobby and into the vestibule, the slapping of her boots on the marble floor not enough to drown out the pounding of Sheldon's treads behind her or the sound of his voice as he called her name.

"Amy, wait!" he yelled.

"Go away! I'm not your one-night stand!" she called behind her as she launched herself against the front door and down the steps toward the street.

"Amy, I didn't - that's not -!" His voice was cut off by the heavy door closing behind him.

A bus pulled up to the curb and Amy ran across the sun soaked square in front of the library and up the steps as soon as the door opened. She didn't have her bus pass out, but the driver didn't stop her other than to say, "Are you all alright, miss?"

Amy ignored him to topple into a seat, grateful the bus was empty on a Sunday morning. She didn't know which route this was or where it was headed, but she knew she needed to be far away from this library as soon as possible.

"Please just go," she pleaded, "now!"

Turning toward the window, she saw Sheldon running from the library, his long legs churning to propel him forward. He leapt over the small wrought iron railings around the flower beds, calling her name all the while. As the bus pulled away, he came to a sudden halt in the middle of the tulips, crushing them under his feet as he bellowed "Amy!" one more time.

The sight of him, brilliant and reflecting in the sun, stung her eyes until they watered and she had to turn away, to look out the other side of the bus toward the buildings still covered in shadow.

_To be continued . . ._

* * *

_**Thank you in advance for your reviews!** _


	6. Chapter 6

_"In secret we met_  
_In silence I grieve,_  
_That thy heart could forget,_  
_Thy spirit deceive."_  
_-_ The Right Honorable George Gordon Byron

* * *

Sometimes, when all is said and done, the experiments prove one's hypothesis was incorrect.

Amy told herself that as she poured a cup of tea and took the fine floral china cup with her to the couch. It is not about discovering what one wants, it is about discovering the truth. Fantasies are called fantasies because they aren't real, she reasoned.

After a long sob and nap in her bed, still fully clothed, and then a scalding hot shower, Amy felt like she could face reality once more. No matter how her chest still ached, the facts were the facts and there was no denying them.

Sheldon Cooper, even though she'd lusted over him for months, was a veritable stranger. She hadn't even known his name until last night. They probably would have never interacted if it hadn't been for the power outage. When she dissected their conversation, he'd told her almost nothing concrete about himself. Most important was that he was moving several states away and he never felt the need to tell Amy that, even as he had to see how she was falling ever further for him as the night progressed. And, she thought as put her cup down on the saucer with an angry thump, pressing fresh tears from her eyes, he was going to use her for a one-night stand. He knew it all along.

All that mystery and aloofness . . . she had thought he was Mr. Darcy but he was really Lord Byron.

Amy told herself she should be grateful that her practical mind had stopped their proceedings before she'd made a mistake she could never undo. And had she really thought of him as brawny and strapping? Who actually used those terms, other than the most farcical of romance novels, even if they were apt descriptors of Sheldon's physique?

Her phoned chimed with the sound of a text, and she lunged for it on the coffee table, eagerly picking it up, breathless as she turned it over to read the words on the screen.

Oh. She frowned. Just the monthly text from her cellular provider informing her that her cell phone bill was due this week.

Then she was doing it again, what she had done on the bus, what she had done when she got home, what she had done when she woke up from her nap, what she had done when she got out of the shower: she checked her short list of contacts to see if Sheldon had somehow cracked her passcode and entered his information this morning while she slept in the library. Before he'd taken the time to erase almost every sign of the time they'd shared there.

But, no, there was still no Sheldon Cooper among her contacts. And there was no Sheldon Cooper on Facebook or Instagram, at least not the one she wanted. Even though she knew from her stolen inspection of his phone that he wasn't on social media. And there was no text or email from him when she needlessly forced her phone to update those screens.

Amy threw her phone back down with disgust. What was she doing? He had tried, hadn't he? He was going to tell her on the sofa. It was what he thought she needed to know. It had to be, as he'd said it just after their debate about long distance relationships. He'd mentioned the Dibner Library more than once, at the circulation desk and later, when the storm interrupted him.

And what did she really expect, anyway? That Sheldon would give up his dream job, his career goals, for her? She was a nobody, just a lonely and friendless student and neuroscientist. Collapsing sideways into her sofa, Amy buried her face into a throw pillow, tears streaming down once more as she cried into the empty room, "I never even asked him what his favorite book was!"

And so the days passed, a repetition of all that Amy had known and yet wholly different. She tried to buckle down and focus on her dissertation, to forget about the events of the night in the library, but even she had to admit she was not successful.

On Monday, she found herself wondering where he was in his move. Amy imagined someone as ordered as him already had all the boxes packed and labeled. Did he rent a U-Haul and drive himself to Washington, D.C.? She shook the thought away with a little smile. Try as she might, she just couldn't imagine Sheldon driving a moving truck. Had he paid movers and flown instead? No, she remembered what he said about trains; he would have taken a train. Had the Smithsonian wooed him with paid moving expenses?

On Tuesday, Amy wondered if he awoke in his new place, eager to start his new job. Or would he have taken a day or two to settle, to unpack and organize? Wednesday came, and she watched _Green Arrow_ for the very first time. On Thursday, she reluctantly washed the blouse he had so tenderly unbuttoned. Friday night, home alone as usual, she baked a batch of peanut butter cookies.

Every day, though, the most painful question she asked herself was why Sheldon hadn't made any effort to contact her. He had access to her library record for months; if he really had that eidetic memory he claimed to possess then he had to remember her address and telephone number. Amy was on Facebook and Instagram, albeit with meager friends counts, if he tried to join and find her there. She changed her profile pictures to a current selfie, even as she hated herself for doing it. She wanted to know what he was thinking. Perhaps she'd been too rash, running out of the library like that, not allowing him to explain himself. But, then, every night that she went to bed without a word from him, she couldn't help but believe that her anger and embarrassment were warranted.

The worst day of all, though, was Saturday. There was no time in the lab to keep her mind occupied, and the ghost of every Saturday evening of the past six months haunted her all day. What was she going to do? She could stay home, of course, but after the sad cookies of the evening before the very idea made her want to cry. But she could not bring herself to return to the Tulip Reading Room. Yes, she could retrieve her forgotten umbrella, but there were too many memories there; and what if Brenda was there and she wanted to chat? Even if it were well-intentioned, Amy couldn't bear to hear Sheldon's name brought up in conversation.

Amy considered going to the medical library on campus, where most of her research materials were housed. After all, she said she was going to finish editing her dissertation. But she already spent several hours there each weekday and her weekend library sessions had always been about relaxation, taking her mind off of her studies for a brief time.

In the end, after far too much rumination, she decided to visit the public library branch closest to her apartment. She would check out the new arrivals and perhaps read something frothy and frivolous and fast-paced. It was probably what she needed.

As spring was in full bloom, the library was not crowded. The décor matched her mood: bland gray walls, dark gray carpet, rows upon rows of gray metal shelving. But, although it was not nearly as beautiful as the Longbow Tulip Library, it was functional and quiet and memory-free. Amy had no difficulty finding some silly sounding young adult novel from the shelves and an empty gray chair, this one in the very back corner, far away from the circulation desk. She told herself that it was because of the table in front of her for her travel mug of tea and the full window next to her would catch the last rays of the sun in a couple of hours.

Despite its convoluted plot about vampires and alternate realities, the book moved at a quick pace, and Amy found herself rapidly turning the pages. It seemed there would be time to finish it even before the library closed. Yes, this was exactly what she needed: something mindless and harmless, a distraction. But once the sun was sinking beside her, the rays shifted and she found the glare from the light upon her page too great, and she turned in the chair, pulling the pages into shadow.

"I think we can agree this branch lacks ambiance."

Amy shrieked and struggled not to drop the book. She looked up at him, wearing the same jacket and messenger bag he had been when she'd last seen him, holding her umbrella in one hand and a bouquet of purple tulips wrapped in tissue paper in the other. "Sheldon! What are you doing here? I thought you - I mean, Brenda said you were leaving -"

"I did. I moved, I unpacked, I put things away, I started my new job. And I flew back this morning." He shrugged softly. "It's a good thing, too, because you were not easy to find. This is the last library branch I've been to." He held up her umbrella. "You left this behind."

"You came back to give me my umbrella?" Amy asked.

He walked forward to offer both the umbrella and the tulips, and Amy took them both without thinking, dropping the umbrella next to her bag. Then Sheldon stepped back. "Yes."

Sheldon said it as though it were simple and obvious, as though a single word would explain everything. But it explained nothing.

"You should have known I'd be here; it's the closest branch to my apartment."

"How was I supposed to know that?"

"Because -" Amy smacked the bouquet down on the table next to her tea and she saw Sheldon flinch at the action "- you know my address from my library record. And my phone number. But you never even tried to call or text me!"

"I would never use your library record for non-official personal reasons. It's against the rules."

"I thought we were rule breakers together! Or was that just an act to get me to have sex with you?" Amy growled.

"Shush! We're in a library!" he admonished, bringing his finger up to his lips, just like he had that night.

Squeezing her eyes and looking away from his hand, the hand she had so admired, Amy said, quiet and defeated now, all the anger gone from her voice, "I thought you were Mr. Darcy but you were really Lord Bryon all along: bad and dangerous."

"Lord Bryon?"

"Yes, the poet."

"I know who he is." A pause. "If that's the case, you'll need to excuse me."

Before Amy could reply, Sheldon pivoted on his heel and walked away. All Amy could do was stare at the empty spot where he'd just stood. If she didn't have the tulips lying there as proof, she could have believed she'd conjured the whole thing with her apparently over-eager imagination. She sat very still, the forgotten book almost dropping from her hand, wondering what had just happened. Had she just insulted Sheldon so deeply that he'd left? Of all the slights she could have hurled at him, all of those angry outbursts she'd been practicing in her mind all week, it was being compared to Lord Byron that wounded him?

But just as it had on the sofa in the library, his sudden pulling away from her only left a cold vacuum. Amy put her free hand against her chest and she tried to fight the burning behind her eyes. Had Sheldon flown back to make amends to her as the tulips suggested or was it really just about returning the umbrella she left behind as she ran away from him a week ago? The tulips. He'd tracked her down in the public library system, and he'd even brought her flowers; he could have asked Brenda to call her about the umbrella. How had he known it was her umbrella anyway?

Amy picked it back up and looked at it for the first time in years. It was covered in original drawings and formulas and models of double-helix strands of DNA by Watson and Crick. He knew it was hers because he'd been listening.

Why had she thrown him away for the second time? Why was she so stupid and hot-headed? Why was it all so hopeless?

Brushing a tear away with the back of her hand, Amy closed the book and leaned forward to collect her mug of tea. She needed to go home. She needed . . . not to be here, not to be in any library, not to be surrounded by books and librarians. And she most certainly didn't need to take the tulips with her.

"Why are you leaving?"

Amy's head shot up. Sheldon looked genuinely confused. "Because you've left twice now," she said.

"Not true. The first time you left me and I begged you to come back. And the second I didn't leave, I just stepped away. I'm here now."

"Listen, Sheldon, I appreciate that you think you owe me an apology - and you do - but consider it done. Despite all your mocking, I am capable of separating reality from romance and mystery, and I know that we have diverging paths in our lives. I understand we need to realistic and practical. Maybe, perhaps, if you hadn't moved or we'd met at a different time or a different place, we might have tried a date or something, but -"

"A date or something?" Sheldon interrupted her. "Do you think just meeting in a coffee shop or somewhere equally mundane would have started this relationship off the way it deserves to be?"

"Relationship?" Amy whispered, truly stunned.

"Yes. I didn't ride in a flying tin can of death for the hopes of anything less. I want a relationship with you. And not just for coitus; I promise I wasn't taking advantage of you. We can wait as long as you want for that. But I didn't come just to return your umbrella."

She reached out and touched the petals of one the tulips, remembering what Sheldon had told her about Persian poetry. It was an appropriate metaphor, the placid and smooth exterior, wrapping itself protectively about the darker, delicate center. The heat of passion, he'd said. Tulips, a flower that never let anyone see how brightly they burned.

"You said that staring at someone across from a desk and then spending just one night in their presence wasn't enough to make it worth the effort," she reminded him softly. "You thought I was being silly."

His face flared with recognition. "I was talking about me!" he protested.

Her lower jaw fell open. "You?"

"Yes, you! Amy, you caught my eye the moment you first came up to my desk. I can't explain it, but I had to look twice. I've been looking twice every week since. You always sat at the closest table, and I watch you read and make little notes, the way your eyebrows shift when you're confused or when you brush your hair back . . . There's something . . . magnetic about you. I know it doesn't make any sense, but I couldn't stop thinking about you, dreading the Saturday you stopped coming for books you obviously didn't need. I did everything I thought I could reasonably do to attract your attention. I always made far more noise than a librarian ought to on the stairs, stomping up and down them, just to get your attention." Amy raised her eyebrows, remembering how he always took the spiral staircase two steps at a time. "And then, last week, I couldn't believe I was so lucky to spend the whole night with you, learning about you, touching you." He blushed violently and looked away. "I've never done anything like that before in my life, and it meant the world to me."

"I just - I don't know . . ." Amy's heart was battling with her brain. She had felt lucky, too, in those moments but only confused afterwards.

"And you were doing the same, weren't you?" he looked back and continued. "Coming every week to read those needless books just to see me? I don't think I was imagining it. I would look up and your eyes would dart away or your head would suddenly dip and your cheeks, they - oh, Amy, you're so beautiful when you blush."

"But you never told me," she replied, softer still. "And now it's too late."

"I'm so sorry, Amy. I know I should have told you my feelings months ago. I know I should have told you that I was moving. I really meant to, after we read from the book together. But I was too much of a coward. I let us - me - get distracted. I'm guilty of taking advantage of interruptions, that's all. I didn't want to break the spell. It was too perfect and I didn't want it to end. I promise I won't leave anything unsaid now. I don't want it to be too late."

Her shoulders sagged from the weight of the situation. Amy wanted to hope, to believe, but the enormity of the decision seemed overwhelming given the circumstances. "I want it to be worth the effort, I really do. But . . . I guess I need to know there will be more than tulips and promises."

"The tulips are just flowers. But -" he reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a large format book that he set on the table in front of her. " _Anatomy of the Human Body_ by Henry Gray. Gray's Anatomy is the incorrect title, although it has entered common parlance. You'll be pleased to note that I paid especial attention to the section on the brain and the neurological system."

Amy didn't quite know how to take this. Was the book a gift, too? "Thank you, but, as you pointed out, I really don't need a basic anatomy text anymore."

He reached into his bag and took out another book, this one a thick paperback. " _The_ _Mysteries of Udolpho_ by Ann Radcliffe. You quoted the line about lightning. But I read it this week and I prefer the quotation 'Such is the inconsistency of real love, that it is always awake to suspicion, however unreasonable.'" He paused and shrugged. "It seemed apropos."

"Sheldon - "

"And this, I read it, too." He pulled out a more slender volume. "Robert Frost. 'Come over the hills and far with me/And be my love in the rain.' Much better than two roads diverging, don't you think?"

Amy's brow furrowed deeply. "I don't understand."

"Ah! Your eyebrows! You're doing it!"

She reached up to touch the space between her eyebrows and felt the groove there.

"You'll be pleased with this, the first full-length mystery novel," Sheldon continued, setting a copy of _The Moonstone_ next to the other books. "My favorite scene was mostly dialogue.  
'"Did you fall asleep?"  
"No. I couldn't sleep that night."  
"You were restless?"  
"I was thinking of you."'  
I didn't sleep, you know. I just kept you warm and tried not to fall off the sofa. But it was worth it, to have you so close to me."

He licked his lips and spoke again, "Maybe _The Moonstone_ is too heavy; how about Nancy Drew?" A copy of _Love Notes_ by Carolyn Keene was placed on the table. "'Their eyes met, and Nancy felt a charge pass between them, like a small electric shock. Hold it, she warned herself.'"

Sheldon paused to look pointedly at her, his blue eyes sparking in the rays of the sunset. It was probably the power of suggestion, but Amy felt it: the charge of electricity, not like a small shock, but rather like a bolt of lightning. She wanted to hold it, but it burned her eyes and she had to shut them.

"Believe me, I know it feels like too much," Sheldon continued, softer, and Amy opened her eyes to see him take a step closer. "It shouldn't be this way, it's not logical or rational." Once more, his hand disappeared into his bag and another book came out. "'Because when you're in love, you think you're invincible. It blinds you. And you don't seem to care.' Dame Agatha. It's from _The Body in the Library_. Because even she knew libraries are magical places. You'll be pleased to know I enjoyed her work greatly.

"'Where the heart is really attached,'" he continued without pause, putting another book on the table, "'I know very well how little one can be pleased with the attention of anybody else. Everything is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not relate to the beloved object!' It's exactly how I feel about everything and everyone new I met this week."

" _Northanger Abbey_ ," Amy murmured.

Sheldon nodded. "I heard Brenda reference it and I had to know if she was correct, if our night spent together was like a novel."

One more step closer to her, and Amy had to angle in her chair to see him properly. Sheldon reached in for another book, and he sat it on the table in the same motion as he got down on his knees. The sight of the cover made Amy yelp, and she threw her hands over her mouth to silence it.

"You were correct, of course, it's a masterpiece. It's about longing and secrets and the meeting of minds even as they are caught in circumstances beyond their control, the power of love, how even brief spans of time can shape our lives." Those were her words, verbatim, and they shook her. Sheldon whispered now, hushing out her favorite words in the English language, "'They took to silence. They touched each other without comment and without progression. A hand on a hand, a clothed arm, resting on an arm. An ankle overlapping an ankle, as they sat on a beach, and not removed. One night they fell asleep, side by side. He slept curled against her back, a dark comma against her pale elegant phrase.'"

She stared at the cover of _Possession_ , the heavy paper flap clearly bent and used. "You read it?" she managed to whisper back.

"Yes. I read all of these this week. Nary a hobbit among them."

"You memorized them?"

"That was the easy part." Then, louder, he said, "One more. You said I was like Lord Byron." Amy looked over at him as he pulled out a hardbound book with the library sticker on the spine. "This probably isn't the best, but I had to find it and read it in the stacks just a few minutes ago:

'She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings,  
The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind  
To comprehend the universe: nor these  
Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine.'"

Sheldon stopped speaking then, and Amy realized he'd said all he came to say. He had laid his case before her, figuratively and literally, and he still stood on both his knees, one hand bracing himself on the arm of her chair. The sun was shifting quickly now, lower in the sky, only the top of it peaking over the roof of the building across the street. Darkness was falling, but the sun was behind her, shining in his face, lighting his skin, just as the fire had that night on the sofa. He did not squint or blink or turn away or seem to care even though he must have been blinded.

"What is all this? What do you mean by it?" Amy asked. He was on his knees, the posture of supplication, but she was done imagining things that were not there.

"A library. I'm giving you a library. Well, not the Lord Byron book, that would be theft, but the rest . . . I now it's not the Longbow Tulip Library, but it can be ours. Amy, I know it's crazy, I know I've moved away, but I want you in my life. I want to give this thing between us my all and I hope you do, too. I want to build our library together, shelf by shelf."

"But you don't think long distance relationships can work," Amy protested softly.

"Then move to D.C. with me; you can finish your dissertation there. Find a job there after you defend. Or not -" he added quickly "- it's your choice; I'll travel every weekend, if you prefer. But someone very special once told me that if there is a spark then there is the possibility of a fire. And I think we shared far more than a spark." He paused and licked his lips. "Amy, I've fallen in love with you, and I don't even care if that makes me sound like I need an MRI. I'll make it work, we'll defy the odds."

Amy reached up and ran her hands along the covers of the books. He had given her a library, or at least the seed of one. He had given her the opulence of hope.

Did she want this? Did she want risk her heart like this, to the stresses of distance and travel? Or did she want to uproot her life, move to a new city just for love? Did she want to alter her plans based on the events of a such a short interlude, no matter how powerfully it had tugged at her for days afterwards? Did she want to trust in the possibilities of happiness with a handsome librarian who was offering her his heart, so unguarded?

Of course she did.

She grasped his hand upon her chair with both of hers, picking it up and squeezing it. Amy had always admired his hands. She remembered his aversion to germs but then how he'd placed his hands on her bare stomach. And her breast. Once again, she felt the warmth of his skin, the smoothness of his palms, and she ran her fingertips over the rough, knobby knuckles and the invisible downy hairs between them. In return, he brushed his thumb over the pulse in her wrist just as he had in the library.

"'The unforgivable embrace was no sudden impulse - no momentary excitation - but came from what is deepest in me, and I think also what is best. I must tell you - ever since that first meeting, I have known you were my fate, however from time to time I may have disguised that knowledge from myself,'" Amy hushed.

"Page 211, Ash's letter to Christabel," Sheldon whispered.

Amy leaned forward, letting the sun bathe her face, and kissed him softly. "Yes. I've fallen in love with you, too. Yes to it all. It's not too late."

"Yes?" Again she wasn't sure if he whispered it or just mouthed it, but she heard it clearly.

"Yes!" She smiled and kissed him again. Her whole life, all her hopes and dreams, were contained in that single word. She knew there were unanswered questions, logistics to determine, and stories still to tell, but she felt her life was just starting, that this was where she'd always been coming to, that all of her time was running forward from this moment. Sheldon wrapped her in his warm embrace, there in the library, in the glow of the setting sun, and, overcome with relief and hopefulness, they laughed into each other's necks.

Then, after gathering their books, they walked hand-in-hand from the library and into the rest of their happily ever.

_To be continued (sort of) . . ._

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_**For all intents and purposes, this is the end of the story. It's the end of my outline, it's the end of the arc. But I do have a little small treat left for you. Un petit merci, if you will, for all your kind words.** _

_**This story was a true coup de foudre for me: from the very second Emmy4mayim said "trapped overnight in a library," I saw the Tulip Longbow Library in its entirety, complete with its secret room, in my mind as clear as if I were standing in it. And there, encircled in a glow of firelight in the midst of darkness, were Sheldon and Amy, sitting on an antique sofa, falling in love. Thank you, Emmy4mayim, for that bolt of lightning.** _

_**Thank you in advance for your reviews!** _


	7. Epilogue

_"I would rather share one lifetime with you than face all the Ages of this world alone."  
__-_ The Fellowship of the Ring _(film)_

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The only clouds in the sky were cumulus, fluffy and blissful. A perfect spring day. Birds were singing, flowers were in bloom, a gentle breeze swayed in the early buds of the trees. Sun streamed into the room and reflected off the marble floor, the heavy velvet drapes pulled back from the tall radius windows, and the white walls and silver ceiling glinted and twinkled in the light. It really was like sitting in a moonstone. Today, the whole world seemed to glow with exhilaration.

Amy smiled softly and tilted her hand in a sunbeam, so that the antique gold of her moonstone engagement ring flickered back up at her. Lowering her hand, she took a deep breath and smoothed the skirt of her dress. She hadn't expected to be nervous. There was only one other thing in her life she'd ever been this sure of doing, and that was following Sheldon to Washington, D.C. almost a year ago. After a month of weekend visits and FaceTime sessions that lasted far into the night, she packed her boxes and moved in with her Hottie Librarian. And never even thought about looking back.

The photographer had left to set up for the ceremony, after a profusion of poses in front of the wallpaper and the white marble fireplace, repeatedly saying how elegant the white on white photos would look. Even her mother had stepped out, making her appearance among Amy's aunts and some other distant relatives with whom she wasn't as familiar. As the heavy secret bookcase was propped open, Amy could hear the crowd growing and buzzing in the reading room, but she couldn't see or be seen because the bookcase and sitting room were obscured from the guests by the screens that had been placed to protect the library's secret.

Alone, Amy wondered if she should have asked someone to be her bridesmaid. It wasn't a priority to her; this day was about her and Sheldon and no one else. But perhaps some conversation would have calmed her thumping heart at this moment. Her life had changed so much in the past year: a new city, a doctorate and a new job, living with Sheldon, and even, for the first time in far too long, new friends.

There was a soft knock on the door frame, and Amy looked expectantly for her mother to enter. Instead, a dark head of hair poked around the edge of the bookcase and his blue eyes blazed when he found her sitting on the purple sofa.

"Sheldon!" she admonished, quickly dropping her bouquet of purple tulips on the cushion as she tried to shield her lace-covered torso from him. "You're not supposed to see me! It's bad luck!"

"Phhlllfftt!" he blew out as he entered. Amy realized he was carrying a package. "I'm not superstitious, and neither are you. Have you heard how loud it's getting out there? All that talking in my library! It's unseemly."

Amy chuckled at his possessive streak as he stepped closer. "It's not your library anymore. It hasn't been for a year now."

"It will always be our library," he replied, smiling back. "Besides, I have something for you."

"Yes, it always will be," she said softly, lowering her arms and standing to meet him, the fabric of her gown rustling.

Sheldon's eyes raked down and back up again. "You look beautiful. So beautiful, Amy. I like your shoulders like that."

"Thank you." Amy blushed, and smoothed her hand along the top of her gown. She'd chosen an off-the shoulder dress, a silent tribute to Belle's ball gown. "You look pretty dashing yourself."

The dark suit fit Sheldon's long and lean frame perfectly. "I know." He reached up and touched his boutonniere, the tulip leaves created from the pages of a book. It was just one of Amy's many purchases from Etsy in the past few months. Although her wedding may not be grand, it was going to be perfect. No detail was too small to put her bookish stamp upon, even down to the titles on the spines of the 'books' that made up their cake.

Still smiling, Amy replied, "I have something for you, too. Let me get it." She stepped away to her bag and lifted out the small box. The everyday clothes she'd worn before changing were folded neatly inside, as though it was another life.

"Here," she extended her gift with a smile, and Sheldon reached out his own and they exchanged. "You go first."

Sheldon nodded and untied the large purple bow, his beautiful hands catching and pulling at the ribbon, stretching back and releasing it before reaching for another grasp. Then his neat fingers slipped beneath the paper, sliding gently, lifting the small patch of tape before he let the paper fall to the floor. His digits curled around the top of the box, the dimples of his knuckles popping as he twisted his wrist, the rectangular box creaking on its tiny hinges. Even now, accustomed to the sight of those hands folding laundry or making tea, accustomed to the feel of those hands upon her body, Amy still couldn't help but sigh softly with longing.

"A Montblanc fountain pen!" He lifted the blue pen out and inspected it closer. "The writers series?" His eyebrow went up questioningly and Amy nodded.

"Jules Verne," she explained. "One of the fathers of science fiction. I thought you could use for your own equations and papers. You know, so someday when someone is collecting your manuscripts, they'll be beautiful. Plus, it matches your eyes."

"Thank you! I love it!" Sheldon put his arms out, but, just as Amy was about to step into his embrace, he lowered them. "Maybe it will crush my boutonniere."

"Oh, yes." Amy stopped.

"The first thing I'll write down is my wedding vows," he said, slipping the pen into his interior breast pocket and patting his lapel.

"I thought we were memorizing them," Amy replied, her brow furrowing at all the effort she had into it and the fear of forgetting them in a just a few minutes making her heart thump.

"Oh, we are. But I'll write them down for prosperity. You know, for someone to collect in the future."

Amy smiled softly, a memory surfacing. She'd returned home to their apartment to find Sheldon already there, pacing and mumbling. After inquiring what was wrong, he said, in a serious way that make her throat constrict, "We need to talk."

"We do?"

"I know you suggested that our vows should be taken from great works of literature, but I've been reading all of Tolkien and it's not there! I was hoping my memory was mistaken and it really was in _The Silmarillion,_ but it's not!" Sheldon's eyes were wild with hysteria as he pointed to the coffee table covered with books.

"Calm down. What's not there?"

"The quote! The perfect quote! It was made up for the movie!"

Reaching up, Amy had calmed him with her hand on his cheek. "It was only a suggestion. If you what you want to say is from a movie than so be it. All that matters is that you'll be saying it to me, at our wedding, because you mean it."

"Really?" he asked.

"Really." She'd stretched up on her tiptoes and kissed him. "Besides, I know you want to prove that hobbits are romantic, too."

"Arwen's an elf," he protested softly, kissing her back.

"What are you chuckling at?" her groom asked, pulling her back to the present.

"I'm just thinking about how much I'm looking forward to your vows," Amy explained.

"With good reason. Now open yours," Sheldon encouraged.

Nodding, Amy removed the paper and opened the box. It was a postcard. A very old postcard from the looks of it. Gently, she reached in and pulled it out. The heavy cream paper was almost pristine, and the embossed printing was raised from the surface. Holding it up closer, she studied the illustration. There was a dark-haired woman, sitting on the grass in a meadow, holding a book and reading. Her white dress was somewhere between Grecian and Edwardian, and it pooled at her feet. Next to those feet rested a loose bouquet of purple tulips. The image became hazy just beyond her as it dissolved into a dizzying array of curves and dips and curls, braiding itself into an intricate circle to surround the reader, all the ends meeting at the top in heavy gold and silver paint at another bouquet of tulips.

"Is this . . .?" Amy asked, breathless in the face of so much beauty.

"Turn it over," Sheldon whispered.

She did and she read aloud, "'Ceiling. Tulip Longbow Library." She looked up at Sheldon's grinning face. "How did you ever find it? Everyone thinks it was lost to history."

"Please. You're marrying the foremost expert in rare manuscript research and acquisitions this country's library system has ever known. If you want to know what the original ceiling looked like, I'll find it for you."

Not caring any more about his boutonniere or her dress or much of anything, Amy turned and sat the postcard down quickly next to her own bouquet before she threw herself at him, and his arms caught and surrounded her, tucking her face in under his chin, just the way she liked. "It's perfect," she hushed, trying not to cry and ruin her make-up.

"She looks like you," Sheldon murmured into the top of her veil.

"Do you ever think about them?" Amy asked into his chest. "They had so much faith. He built a library, knowing she'd come. She planned to follow him across an ocean. But she never got to see her library. They never got to spend a lifetime together."

Sheldon pushed her away gently and reached up to brush her veil away from her face. "Then we owe it to their memory to continue the course of happiness they never got to achieve. And we will. I have faith in us."

"That was almost sentimental," Amy said with a soft smile.

"There's something about this library, I guess."

Before Amy could reply further, she heard the sounds of the string quartet starting their prelude in the main reading room. She pulled away. "You should go. Especially before my mother gets back in here and sees you. She _is_ superstitious."

Sheldon picked up her hand and brushed his thumb along her wrist as he leaned over to whisper in her ear, "I'll meet you at the fireplace, in front of the lamp."

**THE END**

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_**My beloved readers, this coda is my gift to you. Thank you for all your kind reviews!** _


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